Slither
by WitchGirl
Summary: Greg and Sara are kidnapped. Nick is blackmailed. Grissom is lost. A tale of loyalty and strength, madness and torture. What happens to the loved and the unloved, and the consequences of both. [a little GSR, slight Sandle, NickGreg friendship]
1. Into the Snake Pit

Slither 

**Summary:** When Sara and Greg disappear on assignment, the whole lab starts working their case. Meanwhile, Nick somehow finds himself unwillingly lying to his friends. GSR, Greg/Sara friendship, Greg/Nick friendship.

* * *

It had sounded like a routine mission. Sara was tired, and it was almost the end of her shift. Greg wasn't supposed to go. Grissom had decided to go with her. Sara had been mildly surprised. Lately, Grissom seemed to have been avoiding her like the plague. The fact that he'd told her he was coming intrigued her. He said he'd wanted to talk to her, and this would be the perfect opportunity. 

But then, at the last minute, Grissom decided to send Greg instead. This prompted Sara to confront him.

"What is wrong with you?" she snapped, walking into his office without knocking. He looked confused, an expression that Sara was getting very used to from him.

"You're angry," he said, half calmly, half puzzled.

"Greg comes up to me like a hyper-active puppy dog telling me _you_ said he was to go with me on this case when you made such a big deal about talking to me alone. I'm perplexed, if anything, and yeah, maybe I am a little angry because you drive me nuts sometimes."

Grissom chuckled a little and leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Sara, but this has nothing to do with you, if that's what you're thinking. We just got in a case about a murdered photography student, and that, coupled with that cop-killer case that Nick and I are working on has swamped me with work."

"So put Greg on the photography case," Sara whined, reminding herself of a child. "You've been avoiding me for a week now."

"I have not been avoiding you," Grissom said, still utterly calm.

"Oh, you have too," Sara hissed, accusingly. "You have and you know it."

"Sara, I think Greg's waiting for you," Grissom noted. "And I really should get back to work. If you want to talk, we can do it when you get back."

Sara stared at him for a few more minutes until she let out a loud cry of frustration between turning on her heal and leaving. She paused in the doorway, her back still to him. "If you don't say it now, then you never will. You've done this to me too many times, I won't let you do it again. It's now or never" She turned her head to look at him. "So?" Grissom avoided her eyes as he seemed to be scanning some papers on his desk intently. Sara sighed. "I figured. Goodbye, Grissom."

"_Earth to Sara!_ I need you here."

She jolted back into the moment as Greg hit her shin.

"Sorry," she said. "Damn, it stinks in here…" she waved at the air under her nose to hopefully chase away the repugnant reek of every kind of human fluid imaginable intermingling in her nostrils.

"Eh, I've gotten used to it," said Greg with a shrug. Sara stared at him and he caught her eye. "What?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Whatever, I just want to get out of here."

"All we got here is enough blood to know that someone's dead," Greg said, straightening up and dusting his hands off. "We don't have a body, or a weapon."

Sara looked around and wrinkled her nose at her surroundings. "This is disgusting. Are all men's restrooms like this or is this one just special?"

"It's a bar's restroom," Greg replied. "They're all special."

"You get a sample of the blood," Sara said, putting down her camera. "Catherine will be interested in these splatter patterns. Other than that, there's not much point looking for much else in this dump. The whole scene is just… ugh." Sara shivered.

Greg looked up at her with that goofy smile of his. "Kinda makes you feel romantic, doesn't it?"

She glared at him. "Try not to get anything… else in the blood sample, which is probably already contaminated from all this… shit." For lack of a better word. She shivered again. "If you see anything unusual, like, I don't know, soap maybe, then bag it. I'm going back to the car."

"Suit yourself," said Greg, already taking that sample.

Sara raked her hands through her hair as she walked back through the bar. She couldn't believe Grissom. She never knew what went on inside his head and it drove her nuts. She was so preoccupied with her frustration that she neglected to notice that the bartender wasn't behind the bar cleaning glasses like he'd been when they'd arrived.

She went outside in the hot Nevada sun and climbed into the front seat of the jeep. She took out her phone and dialed Grissom. Before it even began to rang, it beeped in her ear and died. She threw her head back against the seat and stared at the roof. Then she felt the steal against her throat. It was like ice in the desert heat. The words in her ear were moist and it made her tense.

"_Don't move._"

So long as that knife remained against her skin, she wasn't planning on it.

"Don't talk, either."

Alright, so begging for her life was out of the question. Not that it had occurred to her before he told her she couldn't talk.

And then, something unbelievable. His other hand was pushing her hair back behind her ear. The same ear he was whispering into. Somehow, the perverse tenderness of the gesture made her want to throw up. But she couldn't move, and she couldn't speak. She tried to keep her nausea down.

"I won't hurt a pretty little hair on your head if you just do everything I say," he whispered. "And you _do_ have pretty hair, you know."

It was too much. She gagged. The knife pressed sharper against her throat.

"I'm sorry," she choked out.

The knife relaxed a little and she heard him laugh in her ear. "I thought I said no talking, baby doll."

He tensed. Sara heard footsteps. _Greg!_ she thought, _Oh no… _

He withdrew the knife. Sara reached for something to use as a weapon but he grabbed her wrist. "Turn around, or try anything funny, and I swear I'll shoot you and your friend right here. Act normal."

Sara wished she hadn't left her gun in the back seat.

Greg opened the passenger side door and climbed in. "We're all clear here," he said. "I got the sample, we just need to—Sara, are you OK?"

There was a bang. It rang in her ears long after the initial boom had dissipated. Sara screamed. He covered her mouth. She bit his hand. She felt the barrel of the gun at the back of her head.

"Shut up and behave or I'll shoot you too!" he snarled in her ear.

It was all she could do to calm down. Her breaths were deep and shuttering. Her eyes darted over to Greg, who lay bleeding in the passenger seat. Her heart was racing.

"Drive."

"W-where?" She never stuttered. Not even talking to the police after her father died. Her lips were dry and chapped. She tried to lick them, but her tongue and the rest of her mouth was just as dry.

"Just drive," he replied. "I'll tell you what to do."

Sara swallowed and nodded, the cold steel still at the base of her skull. She raised her shaking hands tentatively and gripped the wheel. Her hands were sweating. She couldn't help but keep glancing over at Greg. She dared not turn her head to see where he'd been shot. But he was moaning, which told her that he was at least alive and conscious, for now.

"Is he badly hurt?" Sara asked, her voice still trembling.

"He's been shot in the shoulder," the man replied, matter-of-factly. "I may have severed an artery."

"He could lose a lot of blood," Sara said, nervously. "He could die."

"And what is that to me?" the man snapped.

She sniffed and kept driving. Her eyes kept darting over to him.

"You sick bastard…" Greg's voice was like that of a ghost. It made goose bumps rise on Sara's skin.

"Is that right?" said the man, sounding amused.

"Oh God…" Greg sounded like her was in intense pain. "Come on…" he said, breathless. "Give me… give me something to stop the bleeding."

"Or I could give you another bullet to stop your whining," the man snapped.

"Oh my God…"

"You shut up, bitch!" He pressed the gun further into the back of Sara's head. They were silent for a long time, with interspersed directions from the man in the back seat. Greg's heavy breathing both reassured and worried Sara. Once, she heard an odd clicking sound. Glancing at Greg she could see his good hand fiddling with something in his pocket. She tried so hard not to cry. She hated when her eyes stung like that. But she wasn't about to show this guy that he had made her cry. But a tear leaked out. She felt something cool on her hand and looked down to see that Greg had reached over to her. He was looking at her, his other arm on his shoulder. It was paining him to reach out to her with his injured arm, but he was trying to smile at her. It was too much. She started to cry.

"Oh Jesus, keep your hands to yourself, gimp, your making the bitch cry."

Greg withdrew his hand and Sara reluctantly let out another sob at the man's words. She looked over to see that Greg hadn't withdrawn his arm on his own, but rather he had fallen unconscious. She bit her lip.

"Turn here," the man ordered and Sara turned into the parking lot of a warehouse on the outskirts of town in the industrial district. She looked at it forebodingly and wondered vaguely if this was where she was going to die.

* * *

The flash illuminated the room for a split second before it was dark again. Warrick thought for a moment about whether or not to comment of the irony of taking photographs in a darkroom. He turned to look at Catherine and the sour look on her face made the decision for him. He focused the camera on the bullet wound in the victim's skull and snapped another photo. 

"What's eating you?"

She didn't reply right away. She was leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded as she watched him work. The room was only big enough for one of them at a time. Catherine hadn't volunteered to go first.

"It's nothing," she muttered, then hesitated. "I mean… it's just… it's Lindsey."

"Ah," said Warrick, taking another photograph. "Has she gotten herself into trouble?"

"Sort of," Catherine replied. For a second, Warrick thought that was all she was going to say, and then, "I can't stand her new boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? Is she that old already?"

"No, she's not," Catherine snapped. "I mean, well, I guess I was dating at that age, but not boys like _him._"

"Hm…" Warrick muttered, looking at the victim's mouth. "There are white fibers here, on his lips." He took a sample. "So who is the lucky guy?"

"I think he's a drug dealer," Catherine replied. "Or, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Come on," said Warrick with a wry smile. "Like you never dated a few bad boys."

"No, I really think he's a drug dealer," Catherine tried to defend herself. "He kept sniffling all through dinner."

"You had him over for dinner?" Warrick dropped the fibers into the test tube.

"Lindsey insisted," Catherine muttered. "You should have seen the way he acted, it was disgusting. She's doing it to punish me, I know."

"You can't be sure of that…" Warrick noted bruises on the victim's arms. "Hey, Catherine, when you shoot someone do you normally bite them first?"

Her head obviously wasn't on the case. "I mean, he had a tattoo. How many sixteen-year-olds have a tattoo?"

"How do you know he was sixteen?"

"Ugh!" Catherine threw her arms into the air. "I don't want to be one of those moms that freaks out when her daughter starts dating, but this is ridiculous. I wish I was home more often."

"Hey," said Warrick, taking photos of the bruises. "We all wish that."

Catherine's cell phone began to ring. "It's Grissom," she said. "Hold on." She held the phone to her ear. "What's up?"

Warrick was too busy analyzing the scene to see the color drain from Catherine's face. "Catherine, there's a bullet hole in that wall over there, maybe we can find a…" He trailed off as he watched her hang up her phone. "What is it?"

Her face was pale and confused. All thoughts of Lindsey were pushed from her mind. "Grissom says that Sara and Greg are…" The words were too alien and yet all too familiar for her to say. Her tongue searched for the right thing to say. How had Grissom put it? "MIA."

"MIA? What? What's that mean?" Warrick asked. Catherine shrugged.

"I'm not sure," Catherine said. "He wants us back. Now."

* * *

Nick and Grissom climbed out of the car and looked at the bar skeptically. Several squad cars were at the scene as well. 

"You sent them out here?" Nick asked. "The middle of nowhere?"

"It was a report from the bartender about his bathroom being covered in blood," said Grissom. "They should have been in and out. When I called their phones neither one answered." Grissom tipped his hat at Brass, who was talking to a cop by his car.

"That doesn't mean they're in trouble," said Nick.

"Brass called me," Grissom explained. "He said that Sara climbed into the car. He'd just finished talking to the bartender and was on the phone so he didn't pay much attention to her beyond that. He saw Greg come out and they waved at each other. Next thing he knew, there was a gun shot and a scream, and Sara drove off fast enough to leave tread marks on the road."

Nick bit his lip and avoided Grissom's eyes. Instead he just looked at the door to the bar. "You think it was another trap."

Grissom was quiet for a long time. "I don't know," he said frankly. He nodded at the only two cars in the lot. "Brass said that one of those cars is the bartender's. We should see who the other belongs to. And if it's stolen."

Nick nodded. He took a deep breath before entering the bar with Grissom close behind. He leaned over the counter. "Grissom, you said the bartender made the call?"

"Yeah," said Grissom. "Why?"

"Because it looks like he won't be making any more calls from here on out."

Grissom came up to Nick's side and looked over. Grissom sighed. "Looks like a broken neck."

"Someone else was still here," said Nick.

Grissom did not reply, but instead headed towards the men's room and opened the door. The nauseating stench was overpowering and Grissom had to cover his mouth and nose. Just as reported, the walls were painted with blood, as well as other substances Grissom would rather not think of. There was crime scene tape, which meant Sara and Greg had definitely been at the scene.

"Grissom!"

Grissom's head turned at Nick's call but he didn't have to walk far. Nick was running to him, holding up his phone. Grissom took it in his hand and looked at it. It was open to a text message from Greg. It had only three letters written on the screen. SOS.

Grissom looked at Nick square in the eyes. "_Now_ I think it's a trap."

* * *

Sara was thrown into a small cell made of chain link. She landed on something soft and sticky and she looked down and wrinkled her nose to see she had landed on a body. She scampered away from it and wiped the girl's blood on her jeans. She looked up as her kidnapper reentered the warehouse. The warehouse was dimly lit, and it was about an hour or so before sunrise, so she still couldn't see his face. He was carrying Greg as he laid him out on what looked to her to be an operating table, surrounded by trays with various instruments on them. His back was to her when he started talking. 

"You must forgive the accommodations," he said. "It used to be Helen's room and she hasn't quite decided to leave yet. You two will have to be bunkmates for a while. I'm sure you'll get along great."

Sara looked at the body, at least a day dead by the look of her. She was a brunette with cold brown eyes that stared at Sara blindly. Sara dealt with corpses on a daily basis and they had long ago stopped bothering her. In any other situation, she could have a staring match with this corpse, and win too. But now, as things were grave and her own life was being called into question, she couldn't stand the constant reminder of her own mortality staring her in the face. This girl died by this man's hands. Greg had been shot by him. Why would he hesitate to kill her too?

"What are you going to do to him?" So long as she focused on Greg, she didn't have to worry about herself.

"As we speak, I'm tending to his wounds."

"Why?"

He turned slightly at her inquiry and she saw him flash her a twisted smile. "I know you guys well enough that you tend to come in pairs. Generally I prefer to take on you guys one at a time. I'm sure you know."

It was at that moment that the name Helen rang a bell in Sara's skull. "Oh Jesus," she said. "You're that serial killer Grissom and Nick are looking for. Helen Richmond was an LVPD that's been missing, and before her there was Mark Lewis the lawyer. Nick was just running the trace evidence from that dump scene…"

"And before him, Rachel Matthews the traffic cop, and before her, Danielle Porter the judge, and before her Eric Sanchez the vice detective—"

"No discrimination," Sara said, mostly to herself, "not in age, sex or race, the only thing in common was…"

"The fact that they're all in law enforcement." He laughed. "Yeah. All angles of it, too. First time going after you CSIs though, and I gotta tell you, you guys are fun. Last time I shot a guy was that lawyer, and he whined and moaned, not this one though. He was quiet as a mouse, I gotta hand it to him. Impressive. He even tried to comfort _you_ when he obviously in more pain. You want to know why I'm fixing him up all pretty-like? Because he earned it. Also, I'm not finished with you folks just yet. You sound familiar with my case, I'm guessing because it's pretty high profile. So you know, I don't content myself with just killing y'all."

It was true. The details of this guys case came flooding back to Sara's mind and it made her shiver. What he put his male victims through was bad enough, but one look at poor Helen there and Sara didn't even need to imagine what happened to his female victims. All of a sudden, she felt very cold. She began to rub her upper arms.

"You don't bait your victims," Sara remembered. "Why…"

"Because you CSI guys are like roaches. You don't come out of the dark until you smell food."

Sara stared at the floor and hugged her knees. She was quiet for a long time as she listened to her nameless, faceless kidnapper clean up Greg's wound.

"I should have just let you shoot me in the car…" she whispered. "Slit my throat."

The man stopped all his work on Greg but did not turn to look at her. "Is that a request, Miss Sidle?" Sara was about to ask how he knew her name when she thought it was irrelevant. He seemed to read her mind. "Your vest, Miss Sidle. It has your name on it. And this boy here. How old do you think he is? Just north of thirty?" He glanced back at Sara. "And you. You can't be much older than thirty-five yourself." It was eerie that he was right on the money about her age. "Sanders… I knew a Sanders once. He kicked my ass in junior high every day of the week." He glanced at Sara again. "Oh, but I'm sure there's no relation. The Sanders I knew cried like a baby when I bit a sizable piece of flesh out of his shoulder."

There was no way out. There was no way out for Helen, and there was no way out for her and Greg either. Oh Greg. She felt sorry for the kid. It would have been bad enough if it had just been her in trouble. But now she had him to worry about too.

There was a strange noise coming from the table that reminded Sara of a chainsaw. But the kidnapper had stopped working. He reached into Greg's pocket and pulled out a phone.

"Nick Stokes," he said, the name echoing in the warehouse. He turned and grinned at Sara. "Friend of yours?"


	2. Set to Strike

_**Author's Note:**_ For you folks out there wondering, this story is on its way to being finished and should be updated daily, or at least every other day over the next week or so. There _is _a set plot and a steady idea that I want to pursue. I began this story having GSR being the main and/or only romance, but I find myself leaning in other directions as well (you Sandle fans out there might get excited, but don't get your hopes up _too_ high). If you're one of those people who read for the pairings then, um, I don't know if this is your story because romance will only be the undertones of most of it. Pretty much it's about bonds between the team in general, both romantic and unromantic, and what they do under extreme stress. Fans of Nick, Sara and Greg as characters should enjoy this story, and I promise to throw in a lot more of Grissom too later on. Other friendships and relationship dealt with in here should be self-explanitory as you read. Catherine and Warrick, for instance, will not be pushed off to the side so quickly. Now that that's been cleared up, here's chapter two. :o)

* * *

"Nick, that's the fifteenth time you've called," said Warrick, looking over a registry list for 1998 Chevy Silverados. 

"I know, but if Greg sent me that message, it might mean that…"

The quiet did not seem unusual to Warrick. Nick often got frustrated when his calls ended up getting Greg's voicemail. He focused on matching the specs of the car to the registry list. "Hey the car belongs to—"

"What?"

Warrick turned to look at Nick, who was staring at him incredulously, the phone still to his ear. "That's what I'm trying to tell you," Warrick replied. "The car—"

"Warrick, shut up," Nick said. Warrick frowned at him. Nick raised his eyebrows at Warrick, silently trying to tell him to do something. "No, I'm not alone… Sure, OK." Warrick scrambled to load the signal tracing software on the computer as Nick spoke. Nick put the phone on speaker.

"As we speak, you and your little friends are probably trying frantically to find out where this signal is coming from. I wish you luck. I have a couple of friends of yours here with me."

"Are they alive?" Nick asked.

"Mr. Stokes, that's what I always liked about you, you always got right to the point." Nick and Warrick exchanged curious looks. "Yes, they are both alive, one kicking a little harder than the other, but that might be the fact that the other has a bullet in his shoulder."

"Greg…" Nick whispered, his heart heavy. "You shot him."

"He left me no choice."

Nick looked up at Warrick's computer to see it trying to trace the signal. "What do you want?"

"That answer is a simple one, Mr. Stokes." There was the sound of a gun cocking. "But before I ask, I want to make you know how serious I am."

"You don't have to shoot anyone again, we hear you loud and clear."

"That young Sanders boy…" Nick felt cold fear wash over him. "I'm holding a gun to his head right now."

"Aw, Jesus, Greggo…" Nick muttered. "I asked you what you want, leave Greg alone."

"Take me off of speaker," he said, ominously. "My next words are for your ears only, Mr. Stokes."

Warrick and Nick exchanged looks. The computer had zeroed in to a transmitting tower where the signal was being mirrored from. Nick took the kidnapper off of speaker and covered the phone with his hand. "Can't we trace where the call is being mirrored from?"

Warrick answered not with words, but with actions as he tried to adhere to the request.

"It's been my experience that you cannot be trusted, Nick."

"Who is this?" Nick demanded. "Tell me now."

"I gotta tell you, Nick, I never knew you'd end up in Las Vegas CSI. This is just changes my plans completely."

"Who the hell is this or I swear to God I'll get a fix on your location faster than you can shoot." Nick didn't want to play any more games.

"Do you want to bet on that, Nick?"

There was a coughing sound on the other end.

"Oh, look. Mr. Sanders is awake."

"Greg?" Nick said. "Let me talk to him."

"Aw, I don't think he's up for speaking right now, his mouth's a little dry."

"Is Sara OK?" Nick was getting anxious. "Let me talk to her."

"Sara… what a pretty name." His voice got quieter as he seemed to be calling to someone else in the room, "You never said your name was Sara, Miss Sidle. My first girlfriend's name was Sara. Aw, now she's giving me a dirty look, Nick. You would be proud."

"What do you want from me?" Nick asked.

"I want to cut you a break, Nick. You know, since you cut me a break all that time ago. Here's what I'm gonna do for you, Nicky, but this offer is only open to you. Out by the bar, take a sharp turn north and keep heading out into the desert until you reach a dead tree. It'll be the only one in the area, hard to miss. Dig at that tree, and don't stop when you hit the roots."

"What are we going to find there?" Nick asked.

"Your list of missing law enforcement officials."

Nick covered his phone and stared at the ceiling as he cursed. He put the phone to his ear again. "You're the County Cop Killer," he said, realization dawned. Warrick turned to look at him.

"Aw, shucks, Nicky, I'm flattered, you've been following the news about me. Now I feel kind of bad that I haven't kept up with you and your… exploits."

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked. "You keep talking like you know me."

"Are you alone, Nick?"

"No," Nick said.

"Leave the room."

Nick paused a moment. "OK, I'm alone."

"Don't lie to me, Nick." The gun cocked again.

"OK," said Nick, walking back towards the door. Warrick stood up nervously and made to follow Nick, but Nick held up his hand and waved Warrick away as he made for the door. Warrick watched him out the window as he talked on the phone in the hall. For a moment, he wished Grissom was there so he could figure out what Nick was talking about.

"OK. _ Now_ I'm alone. Who are you? How do you know me?"

"Oh, we go _way_ back Nick. Have you been in Vegas for so long that you can't recognize a Texan accent anymore?"

Nick went pale. "Where do I know you from? Dallas? A&M?" The voice and the way this guy was talking really bothered Nick. It felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Now you listen to me, Nicky. You've added a whole new twist to this game for me. And I used to really like you, I did. So I'm going to tell you what. I'll keep your friends alive for now. So long as you do everything I say, I might let you see them again alive. Do we have an understanding?"

"We do," said Nick.

"Good. Then here is what I want you to do…"

* * *

"Nick." 

He turned around at the voice as he hung up the phone and looked at Warrick like a deer in the headlights. "Jesus, Warrick… Did you get a signal?"

"The signal was mirrored from one tower to the next," said Warrick.

"That's impossible," said Nick. "I called _him._"

"So long as he had a signal mirror in the building with him, any incoming signals are immediately warped," said Warrick. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing," Nick lied. "Just more bragging and threats."

"You mentioned the County Cop Killer. Is that who we're dealing with?" Warrick's voice was business-like, but his eyes seemed to be scrambling to hide a deeper fear.

Nick sighed. "Yeah, I think so. He gave me the location of the dump site. You and Grissom should check it out."

"And what are you going to do?" Warrick asked.

"Warrick," Nick pleaded. "I got stuff I need to do. Please don't ask questions beyond that."

"I'll tell Grissom—"

"You tell Grissom that homicide located the body dump site for the County Cop Killer," said Nick.

"Nick, are you _insane?_" Warrick hissed. "I'm telling Grissom that you got a call from Greg and Sara's kidnapper and that for some reason he's singled you out to be the negotiator…" Warrick trailed off at the panic scrawled on Nick's face. "What did he say to you, Nick?"

"Fine," Nick said. "Tell him everything. But don't ask me that question again, Warrick."

Nick turned to leave but Warrick called after him. "I don't like you keeping things from me, Nick. I don't know what your game is, but I can assure you you're playing right into his hands, and then we'll never get Greg and Sara back."

Nick closed his eyes but did not turn to face Warrick. "Believe me, Warrick. I don't like keeping things from you either. Just trust me when I say I'm doing this for your own safety."

"And what about yours?"

Nick pretended not to hear the question as he fled the scene as fast as he could.

As Nick walked the long halls, he didn't make note of where he was going. He blindly bumped the shoulder of someone passing by and muttered a quick apology.

"Nick?"

He froze at the voice, but recovered quickly as he turned to its owner with a smile. "Hey, Grissom, I was just looking for you." At that moment, telling Grissom he'd just seen a purple hippo fly would have been a smaller lie.

"Warrick said you got an answer from Greg's phone." His voice was completely monotonous.

Nick shrugged. "What? Oh yeah, I did. I didn't get anything substantial. He was just spewing dribble. Also, missing persons called asking about GPS, but I told them Greg's phone was from 2004 and doesn't have the mandatory GPS tracking that phones after 2005 have."

"I know," Grissom muttered. "And Sara just bought a new phone last week, but it's off. What did the kidnapper tell you, Nick?"

"He's not just any kidnapper," Nick replied. "It's the County Cop Killer."

"Shit," Grissom muttered. He closed his eyes. "We know this for sure? He's not just a copycat wannabe?"

"He gave me the location for where he dumped the bodies we haven't recovered," said Nick. "Once we check that we can be pretty sure he's at least a serious wannabe."

"If he's the one that has Greg and Sara we should probably check out the site…" Grissom said, mostly thinking out loud. "Get your things."

"Can you take Warrick?" Nick asked. "There's something I have to do."

Grissom blinked at him. "Warrick?"

"Or Catherine. Or somebody else, just… I can't go, Grissom, I'm sorry." Nick tried to walk past Grissom down the hall but Grissom caught his shoulder.

"Nick," he said. "I know you're worried about Greg and Sara. Whatever that guy said, though, don't let it get to you. We'll find them. And we'll get them back safe."

"I know," said Nick with a weak smile. "You should really go check out that dump site now."

Grissom looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "Nick, are you OK?"

Nick hesitated a moment before smiling and nodding. "As much as I can be in a situation like this."

Grissom too hesitated, his hand still pressed against Nick's shoulder. "What kind of dribble did he spew at you exactly?"

"What do you mean?" Nick asked, avoiding the question.

"Nick, what aren't you telling me?" Grissom asked.

"I'm telling you all I can," Nick replied. It was the most honest thing he'd said in the entire conversation. "Go to the dump site. I gotta go."

Nick got out of that hallway as fast as he could and entered the nearest empty office, slamming the door. He leaned against the door and breathed hard, his heart racing. There was a knock on the door.

"Grissom, I don't know what you want to hear, but—"

"Nick, is that you?"

"Catherine?" Nick turned his head so his ear was to the door. "What do you want?"

"To get in my office."

Nick looked around the room and rolled his eyes. He turned around and unlocked the door. "Sorry."

She smiled at him reassuringly. "Running from something?"

"You wouldn't believe," said Nick.

Catherine walked past him, shuffling some papers in her hands. "Try me," she said, going through her papers. She stopped and looked up at him. "It's about Greg and Sara, isn't it?"

Nick looked at the door and closed it. He then looked back to Catherine. "If I tell you something in confidence, you have got to promise me that it won't leave this office."

Catherine looked at him, concerned. She folded her arms. "Sure, Nick, you can tell me anything."

Nick opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. A spot of blood appeared on Catherine's clean white blouse and grew larger and larger, the blood dripping down and staining her pin-striped pants.

"Nick?"

Nick shook the image from his mind. "I'm allergic to carnations."

"What?" Catherine blinked.

"I took this girl out to dinner yesterday," Nick said quickly, "and I bought her some carnations. Half way through the date I was itching like a madman, we ended up spending the night in the emergency room, and she hasn't called me back yet."

Catherine chuckled a little. "That's not so bad, Nick…"

"It is when you still have a rash the size of Kentucky," Nick replied, pretending to scratch his chest. "I was hoping to hide for a while. So I could rub some chamomile lotion on my hands and chest."

Catherine walked over to him and took his hands in hers. She looked down at them, then up into his eyes. He pulled his hands away. "You're scared, Nick."

"What?"

"It's OK," Catherine said, soothingly. "We're all scared. You don't have to make up any silly stories about being allergic to carnations. Your hands are fine."

Nick smiled and laughed awkwardly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Catherine. Thanks."

"You can stay in here for a little while," said Catherine. "But the sooner you get back to work, the sooner we can get Greg and Sara back safe and sound. Warrick said the car in the lot belongs to someone named Andrew Mailer, and we're going to check that out now. I think Grissom was looking for you…"

"He found me," said Nick.

"Oh," said Catherine. "Fantastic." She squeezed Nick's hand one more time before leaving. Nick closed his eyes and planned his next move carefully. He didn't recognize the name Andrew Mailer, and had a feeling it would be a dead end. He knew now that he and their suspect had a history going as far back as Texas, and it would hopefully be a name he recognized when he heard it. He didn't know what evidence they would get off of the dumped bodies either. The few bodies they'd found hadn't been much help as of yet. Nick pulled out his phone and dialed. It didn't take long to get an answer.

"Where do you want to meet?"

* * *

Sara watched from her little corner, curled up on the floor, as their kidnapper packed a few things. 

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"There's some business I need to take care of with an old friend."

The sun had risen by now. Sara was vaguely aware that if she hadn't taken this last assignment, she would be home by now, asleep, or maybe with Grissom talking about useless things and avoiding the important ones. Grissom. Just the thought of him made her bite back tears. Those hideous things she said to him. Would they be the last things he ever heard her say? Frustrated and misdirected anger?

"How do you know Nick?" Sara asked.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that."

"The things you asked him to do… the position that you put him in. Telling him to lie to the others. Putting their lives in his hands by threatening to kill them all if he doesn't oblige. You must hate him a lot." The conclusion wasn't a big leap, but Sara did take a risk in voicing it. This man was unpredictable, and if she pried too much she wasn't sure how he'd react.

"Why do you say that?" he asked her, sounding curious. "You know that to be doing what I do, I must have a long history of hating law and order."

"You're a terrorist."

"I'm an anarchist," he sneered.

"You kill us to make a point," Sara returned. "But Nick? That's personal. What are you going to ask him to do for you when you go to meet up with him? Trade himself for both of us?"

He turned and aimed a gun at her. "I don't like it when people ask too many questions. I'm a good shot, Miss Sidle. Even through a chain link barrier, don't think I could miss you."

"You won't shoot me," Sara said, taking another leap of faith. "It's not your style.

He lowered the gun. The calm way he silently walked towards her cell scared her more than any gun could have. He opened the door and stepped inside. He loomed over her now like a dangerous shadow. Sara made a break for it. She launched herself at his knees making him topple over her. She made for the door on all fours and scrambled out. She got to her feet and ran to Greg, who was barely conscious on the operating table, his linen wrappings already stained red.

"Sara…?" he mumbled, his pupils large. She tried to get him to sit up, but he just leaned on her and she stumbled backwards.

She felt the barrel of the gun digging into her back right under her left shoulder blade.

"Make me shoot now, Miss Sidle, and I promise you that your wound will be a tad more fatal than our drugged up friend here."

Though Sara felt the gun as vividly as she felt Greg's chest heaving up and down in her arms, she did not move. She did not speak. Indeed, she just held Greg's groggy body close to her, drawing comfort from his constant breathing. She felt his breath on her neck, she smelled the gel in his hair. Slowly her hand moved up his back to the back of his head and she buried her fingers in his hair. She closed her eyes before she spoke, pretending they were somewhere else.

"Go ahead," she whispered. "Shoot me."

She heard the gun clatter to the floor as he seized her hips. She held on tighter to Greg as she felt their kidnapper press himself against her from behind. While Greg's head rested on her right shoulder, the kidnapper's tongue hissed in her left ear.

"Let him go, Miss Sidle."

His violating grip was more effective then the gun and she began to lay Greg's half-awake form back on the table. Before she sat up again, she heard him whisper in her ear.

"_I won't let him hurt you._"

The fact that he was the one that lay bleeding emphasized the futility behind his words and made Sara shut her eyes tight to hold back the tears. Greg's words were full of stubborn determination and yet she knew they had no real power behind them. As she straightened up she saw him staring at her with a hard gaze. She knew he meant them with all his heart, but she also knew there was nothing for him to do. She almost wished he hadn't said anything at all.

When she straightened up again, the kidnapper's mouth was still near her left ear and his hands were still on her hips, pressing hard. After a moment, his grip lessened, and he began to rub his hands up and down her thighs.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Don't…"

"You are in no position to tell me what to do, Miss Sidle. Sara." The way he called her by her first name disgusted Sara almost more than his coarse touch.

"I'm not telling…" Sara whispered as his hands traced her belt. "I'm… I'm asking." Even in a dire situation as this, she'd be damned if she used the word 'begging,' even if it was true.

His laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. "You will behave yourself, won't you Sara?"

He began to lift up her shirt. She grabbed his wrists and pushed them down. "I will to an extent."

He tore his hands out of her grip. "How _dare_ you," he hissed in her ear.

"How dare _you_," Sara returned, stubbornly, spinning around to face him. He grabbed her shoulders but this was exactly what Sara had been waiting for. She grabbed his arm and flipped him onto his back. He laid there in shock for a moment and Sara took this time to make for the gun. She aimed it at her kidnapper as he got to his feet with his hands up.

"You shouldn't have dropped your gun," Sara said, confident for the first time all day.

Half in delirium, Greg rolled over on his side and looked at Sara with half-closed eyes and a dopey smile. "That-a-girl…" It was almost enough to make Sara blush. But a triumphant smile did tug at her lips

"Yes," said their kidnapper. "That-a-girl indeed." Swiftly, he pulled out a knife and held it under Greg's chin. "But you should know by now I always have a trick up my sleeve."

"I can shoot you before you even nick the surface," Sara said.

"You know what I like about you, Sara? You've got spunk. I deal with you folks all the time. I should have anticipated that you'd know hand to hand. But this boy here? No matter what he knows, he can't move more than a pinky finger, not with the drugs he's on."

Greg's sputtering told Sara that the pressure on the knife was increasing. Sara closed her eyes and slowly lowered her gun.

"Kick it over here," he said and she reluctantly obliged. He picked it up and removed the knife from Greg's throat, who coughed. "Now. You have two choices. You can try and run, in which case I'll just slit Mr. Sanders throat over here, or you could obediently go back to your cell and calm down. What is it going to be, Miss Sidle?"

Sara felt absolutely helpless. All her training had failed her. Feeling utterly defeated, she reluctantly dragged her feet back over to her cell where Helen Richmond laid waiting for her. Sara thought back. She remembered that back when Helen was reported missing, Sofia had said something about how she knew her. This guy really did affect everyone on the right side of the law.

He followed her into the cell and closed the door behind him. She looked up at him anxiously, unsure of the extent of her sacrifice. He looked down at her in turn, his gruff face hidden in shadow.

"Good choice," he said with a smile. "You'd just have met a locked door anyway."

"I couldn't leave Greg," Sara whispered, looking anywhere but his eyes. He grabbed her chin and forced her gaze upward.

"You are a loyal friend," he said. "So many qualities in you that's useful on the force. I bet you're one fine CSI." Sara ripped herself away from his grip. He stroked her hair. "I'll leave you alone for now. But trust me when I say you'll pay later for that little stunt you tried to pull." He left the cell and locked it behind him. "I'll be back." He headed towards the large doors.

"Aren't you worried we'll try to escape?" Sara asked, wondering if she should have.

"You won't," he replied, picking up his briefcase and putting on a pair of sunglasses.

"I'm more resourceful than you give me credit for," Sara said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

"Oh I don't doubt your resourcefulness," he replied casually, "but don't doubt mine either."

He lowered his glasses and winked at her as he opened the door, the sunlight finally revealing his icy blue eyes. And with that, he was gone.


	3. Snake Eyes

**Author's Note: **My laptop is having some technical difficulties. So I can't keep my promise of uploading everyday. See my profile for details. Anyways, here's chapter three, which I copied from the safe mode on my lap top onto here in a particularly boring part of my day. Enjoy. Also, a random celebrity's name is burried some where in here. Props to whoever stumbles on that Easter Egg.

* * *

Catherine tapped her foot on the doorstep anxiously. "I have a feeling this is a waste of time," she said. 

Warrick was silent.

Catherine rang the bell again. "You OK, Warrick?"

"It's just… déjà vu, you know?" he said.

"Catherine nodded. "I think it hits a little too close to home for Nick too." Warrick grunted and folded his arms. Catherine glanced at him and considered pressing the matter further. It wasn't just that this reminded them of bad times. Something else was on his mind, and at the mention of Nick he seemed to get even more agitated. She would have pursued the matter further if the door hadn't opened just then.

"Can I help you?"

She flashed the badge. "Mr. Mailer? I'm Catherine Willows from the Crime Lab and this is Warrick Brown. We're here about your car."

"Which one?"  
Catherine and Warrick exchanged looks. "The Chevy Silverado."

"Oh hell," said Andrew Mailer as he rolled his eyes. "Dammit, what has Jeremy done now? Jeremy!"

Soon enough, a teenager appeared at the door. He was the poster child for the rebellious teen. He wore a silver ring in his left nostril and a pair of skulls dangled from his ear. He had a tattoo on his right arm of a snake and his straggly hair was died black. His eyes were dowsed with more black eye liner than a hooker would use. He sniffed and looked at them with bloodshot eyes. Catherine's eyes went wide. So did his.

"Aw, shit, Ms. Willows, whatever Lindsey said I did, it's not true."

"This is _your _house?" Catherine said, appalled.

"Ms. Willows?" said Andrew. "Does my son know you?"

"Oh I _knew_ you were a criminal—" Catherine hissed, but Warrick interrupted her.

"What my colleague means to say, Jeremy, is how did your car end up being the only car in a parking lot of a crime scene thirty miles out of town?"

"What?" Jeremy said, blinking. "Thirty miles? Did he take it that far?"

"Did who take it that far?" Warrick asked.

But all of a sudden, Jeremy began to panic as he looked from his father to Catherine. Andrew was glaring at him sternly.

"Jeremy, what did you do with my car?"

"It's not _your_ car just because you bought it for me," Jeremy muttered.

"Jeremy Norman Mailer, tell me what you did with my car or so help me God I'll get your mother involved."

The stern words of his father (and possibly the threat of his mother) provoked Jeremy into spilling his guts. "OK, OK," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "I'm sorry. I needed some cash, so I've been renting it out."

"You idiot," Catherine said with a scoff.

"Dad, aren't you gonna defend me against her?" Jeremy asked.

"No, she's right," said Andrew. "You _are_ an idiot."

"But if you need money," Warrick put in, playing peacemaker, "there are worse ways to try and get it. Well, the car is still under your name, Mr. Mailer, so do we have your permission to search it?"

"Yeah," said Andrew. "Of course. We have nothing to hide."

"Tell me you _at least _rent to people you know," Catherine said to Jeremy, her forehead wrinkled in incredulity.

"I get their specs," said Jeremy.

"Great," said Warrick. "What are they?"

* * *

"Ryan What?" said Grissom into the phone as he watched them exhume another deteriorating corpse. 

"Ryan Woodward," Catherine Replied, pacing up and down the lap behind Warrick, who was seated at the computer. "The kid said he gave him his state ID and five hundred big ones as insurance that he'd bring the car back." She put her hand over the mouth piece of the phone and looked at Warrick. "Snowball's chance in hell I'm letting him see Lindsey again. I knew he was a slimeball, associating with crooks…"

"OK, what are his stats?" Grissom shook his head sadly as they pulled out the body of Detective Derrick Lipman, a rookie that Brass had introduced him to a few months earlier. He couldn't have been much older than twenty-five. They had estimated the victim count for the County Cop Killer to be about twelve, with five recovered bodies. But there were easily about ten victims here, and that's only the ones they'd already dug up. How many people had this guy killed?

Thoughts of Sara flooded his mind. He thought of all the things he'd wanted to tell her. She'd always been on his back about opening up and spending more time together, but he always thought it would all fall together in time. What if he was out of time?

As Grissom came back to his senses, he noted Catherine's silence. "Catherine, what is it?"

"This guy…" Catherine said, absently.

"Catherine what, is he an ex-con, a drug addict, what?"

"He's a Texan, born and raised," Catherine replied, reading over Warrick's shoulder. " Dallas. Went to college at Texas A&M where he majored in criminal justice. Any of this sounding familiar?"

Grissom didn't answer for a moment. "Is he a cop?"

"No…" Catherine said. "But get this: he changed his major from criminal justice to pre-med half-way through his junior year, he had to scramble to make up the credits."

"That would explain how he knew half of the torture methods he used on his victims." _Numerous but shallow cuts, none on the arteries but plenty on the finger tips and lips, surgical precision in the amputation of extremities, post-mortem y-cuts similar to an autopsy with organs removed…_ The details chased each other around in Grissom's memory, except instead of all the actual victims, all he could see was Sara's dead eyes staring back at him. He felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

And Greg. Why had he sent Greg on that mission? _He_ should have gone instead. He'd _promised_ Sara that he'd go with her. If he had gone, then poor Greg wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe he would have seen something they hadn't, maybe he could have protected Sara… But he knew that Sara's eyes were as sharp as his, even if she was in one of her moods and if she didn't notice anything strange, he probably wouldn't have either. The only difference his presence would have made would have been getting himself kidnapped instead of Greg. And what good would that have done? He kicked himself for thinking about all the what-ifs he couldn't change.

"Grissom?"

"I'm here, Catherine."

"At least one of you is. Warrick just got up and left without saying anything at all."

"That's not like him," said Grissom, turning away from the dead tree and the corpses beneath it. "He didn't even tell you where he was going?"

"Well… We were reading about Woodward. He applied to medical schools all over the country but didn't end up getting in anywhere. Afterwards, he was arrested for holding a doctor hostage. Not guilty by reason of mental defect."

"Figures," Grissom muttered. "Where'd you get this, is he in the system?"

"For the Texas arrest? Of course," said Catherine. "But also, he wrote a book. There's a short biography about him on his website."

"A book?" said Grissom. "On what?"

"I don't know. Autobiographical or something," Catherine replied.

"Are we sure this guy is the same guy who borroed the car?"

"The kid said the photo matched the guy," said Catherine. "And the ID isn't fake."

"It all seems too easy is all…" Grissom muttered. "Why would a serial killer leave his ID with a kid? I'm going to go back and process the car. If he really is the County Cop Killer, there might be some evidence in there linking him to some of the crimes."

"What about Sara and Greg?"

There it was. That heart-dropping-into-the-stomach feeling. Grissom swallowed. "You and Warrick keep working on it. I… I just can't right now."

"Gil…" Grissom could tell Catherine was at a loss for words. He let her fumble awhile as he stared at the morning sun, trying to blame the stinging in his eyes on the light.

"We'll find them. We always do."

"Yeah," said Grissom, blinking and looking at Brass who was staring at Derrick Lipman's desecrated remains as they zipped it up in a body bag. "One way or another."

"I'm going to check on Warrick," Catherine said. "You hang in there, Gil, you hear me? I'll call you back soon."

"Yeah," Grissom said dully. "Bye."

Grissom held his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun as he looked over towards the bar. He climbed into his car and drove back towards it, ready to process the Chevy.

* * *

Nick looked at his watch, then at the entrance, then at his watch again. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. 

"More coffee sir?" The waitress was cute, her dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a sweet twenty-something smile. She'd been flirting with Nick all morning. She always asked to refill his coffee every time he put the cup down from his last sip. Had it been any other day, Nick would have smiled and flirted back, but he was too preoccupied to even care.

"No, four cups is my limit," he said, not even bothering to look up at her this time. He still craned his neck to get a better look at the door.

"You've been waitinf for your friend for an hour now," said the waitress, sounding a little hurt he wasn't paying as much attention to her as she'd like. "Are you sure she's going to show?"

"He," Nick corrected, eyes still on the door. "And he's not my friend."

"Oh." The waitress got really quiet. "Sorry I bothered you," she said, blushing, before she left. Nick glanced at her retreating back and rolled his eyes as she probably came to the conclusion that he was gay.

The bell above the door rang and Nick's eyes flew back to it. He didn't have a clear look at him at first. His eyes were covered by a suave pair of shades. He was wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase. He slid in the seat across from Nick. There was something very familiar about him… Nick narrowed his eyes.

"Nick Stokes," said the stranger. "It's been a long time."

"Take off the glasses, you're inside now," Nick replied, still trying to figure this guy out. He complied. And Nick blinked at him. The breath caught in his throat. "Ryan? Ryan Woodward?"

"I'm flattered, you remember me," said Woodward, sounding a little sarcastic. "In college you were too much of a hotshot to pay any attention to a poor nerd like me."

Nick leaned across the table, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed. "_You're _the County Cop Killer?" he hissed under his breath.

"You sound surprised," Woodward said, pretending to brush invisible specks of dirt off his shoulder.

"Surprised?" Nick said, "I'm _floored._"

"Sorry I'm late, by the way," Woodward said, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Our little Sara decided to give me some trouble."

"I swear, Woodward," Nick warned, "if Sara so much as broke a _nail _because of you, I'll book you so fast you'll think it was yesterday."

"Oh Nick," Woodward laughed as he leaned back in his chair. "You always were the protective type. Over Greg, over Sara… over Dana."

"Dana?" Nick was thrown by the name, one he hadn't thought about for a long time.

"Dana Blanchard? Do you remember that case, Nick?" Woodward asked. "October, 1995, the unsolved rape and murder of your college sweetheart?"

Nick felt himself beginning to grind his teeth as his gaze intensified. "You sone of a bitch…"

"You know, after you left the apartment that night, and I raped her for the first time, she kept calling for you, Nick," said Woodward, coolly. "After just a chance meeting two years after the breakup and you were _still_ the first person she cried out for. All you had was tea and a little chat reminiscing about good times, hell, I believe you, Nick, I do, even if the Texas detectives at the time didn't."

Nick had never felt his blood run so cold. A lump began to form in his throat. He choked it down and bit his tongue. "We had a deal, Woodward," he growled, his voice barely audible. "A little pow-wow with me, you give me Greg and Sara unharmed, and I let you walk. You've had your little chat. Give me Greg and Sara and I won't tell a soul that I saw you here today."

"That's not going to work, actually," said Woodward as he stretched in his chair. "You see, I sort of… _accidentally_ left my car out for Las Vegas' finest to find. So now that they know who I am, our deal is going to have to change a little."

"What?" Nick cried out. "Hell, no. You hold a good hand, Woodward, but you don't hold all the cards. I promised I would come alone, I never said I wouldn't come prepared. I'm packing, and I'm not afraid to make a scene in this crowded café here. You don't stick to the deal, Woodward and neither will I. I'm not gonna hesitate to haul your ass in."

Woodward said nothing. He simply slid a file across the table. Nick looked at the label. BLANCHARD, DANA, 30/10/95. UNSOLVED.

"If you really came prepared," Woodward said smoothly, "you would have worn a wire."

"Why do you keep bringing Dana Blanchard into this?" Nick asked, his fury mellowing into confusion.

"As we speak, your friends at the Crime Lab are probably running around like ants trying to learn everything they can about me and where I might be lurking in this here city."

Nick closed his eyes. "Don't talk about ants to me right now, Woodward. Don't beat around the bush, just be straight with me here. Like frat brothers are supposed to be." He said the last sentence with as much disgust as he could muster.

"If you look at the case file," said Woodward, "you'll note that you're still the chief suspect in that case. Do your friends over here know about that?"

"It didn't even go to trial," Nick said stubbornly in a harsh whisper. "They never—" There was that lump in his throat again. "They never found someone to compare the semen to, but it didn't match me."

"Plus," said Woodward with a shrug. "Daddy was the D.A. Can't touch you."

"No," said Nick, a little bit more than annoyed. "It's because _I didn't do it._ It was one of the things that helped me to make my decision to work as a CSI. The evidence speaks loud and clear, for guilty and not guilty alike."

"So I suppose you should thank me," Woodward said.

"You killed and raped my ex-girlfriend and left me as the only suspect," Nick snarled through gritted teeth. "You've kidnapped two of my very good friends, and I gotta tell you, Ryan, I'm not too _thankful_ for that right now." His hands were shaking. His fingers kept clenching and unclenching into fists. "Now get to the point or so help me God, Ryan, I will shoot you right here and now. Fuck protocol. I'd be content just to be the one to put a bullet in that sad little head of yours."  
"Aw, Nick, always so brash. You know that if you kill me now, you'll never get to your friends. I told you about the trap."

"And aren't you creative," Nick sneered, sarcasm oozing out of his pores.

"You want me to get to the point?" Woodward asked. "I want you to confess to the murder of Dana Blanchard."

"Like hell I'll admit to that," Nick snapped, furious.

"Come on, Nick," said Woodward, sounding like a car salesman trying to seal the deal on the scam of the century. "I don't have much time left in my career before I retire and inevitably die. And I am totally OK with that, indeed, I planned it that way. There's just one thing I want to see before I die, one last request before I go gently into that good night and that is to see Nick Stokes rightfully behind bars. If not for the murder of Dana Blanchard, then for the murder of, oh, I don't know… Ryan Woodward?"

Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm down. "I'm leaving here right now," said Nick. "I'm going to go back to my lab and tell them _everything_ about you. You say they already know you're behind it. It's only a matter of time before we find out where Greg and Sara are and put you away for a long time." Nick rose to his feet. "You played your hand, Woodward, and you lost. Sometimes that happens here in Vegas."

Nick began to walk away but as he walked past Woodward, the criminal grabbed Nick by the arm and his nails dug in tight.

"I raped Dana Blanchard," said Woodward. "I raped Helen Richmond. I raped Rachel Matthews. I raped Danielle Porter. The only thing preventing me from laying even a finger on your precious Sara Sidle is you, my friend. You walk out on me now and she is fair game. You say it's only a matter of time, Nick, but how much time are you willing to waste? Days? Weeks? What do you think I'll do to them in those crucial hours of limbo? I _will_ rape Sara Sidle, and I'll make sure Greg Sanders sees the whole goddamn thing. You like the gambling metaphors, so how about this. You walking out now is equivalent to rolling a snake eyes. You. Lose. _Everything._"

Nick's heartbeat raced ahead of him. He broke out in a cold sweat. It was all he could do not to grab Woodward's arm and kill him right then and there. He tried to take deep breaths.

"_Leave them alone_," Nick hissed through his teeth. "If you have a beef with me, take it out on _me_, do you hear me Woodward?"

"If you go back to your friends at CSI now and tell them all we talked about, I can guarantee you that within the hour, Miss Sidle will be beyond tears and Mr. Sanders will be begging to die. And I won't just stop there. I will personally hunt and kill every single member of that team of yours. Everyone you worked with, everyone you ever cared about will be mercilessly slaughtered like lambs."

"You put me in a very difficult position here, Woodward," Nick said. "Even if I do confess to Dana's murder, there's still the fact that _your_ DNA was found at the scene."

"You trying to frame me," said Woodward automatically.

"This is why you couldn't make it as a criminal justice major," Nick said, rubbing his eyes. "You watched too many badly done crime movies. A cop trying to frame a serial killer? Even if that made _sense_, I'm a CSI. I would have planted less obvious evidence than that."

"You weren't a CSI at the time," said Woodward with a shrug. "You were still Dallas PD."

"The story just doesn't hold up," Nick said. "It didn't twelve years ago and it sure as hell doesn't now."

"Your epithelials, your hair, your DNA was all over that apartment from when you were there earlier," Woodward pointed out. "They are also all over _her_ if you would recall. Not to mention your prints on the murder weapon."

"I told them, and I'll bet you know too that I helped her cook dinner," Nick snapped. "She asked me to cut the damn French bread, so of _course_ I used the knife."

But Woodward was shaking his head slowly. "The only thing they found that belonged to _me_ was the semen."

"I find that hard to believe," said Nick. "You could never have pulled that off. You aren't smart enough."

"Have you ever seen the movie Gattaca?" Woodward replied, holding back a grin.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Nick laughed.

"Well they didn't find anything else of mine at the scene, did they?" said Woodward. Nick stared at him for a long time, and then burst out laughing. "It won't fly. It just won't."

"They've convicted men on less."

"What's your vendetta against me anyway, Woodward?" Nick asked. "I was never mean to you."

"No," said Woodward. "In fact, once you were even nice to me."

Nick was totally flummoxed. "You're a sick son of a bitch, Woodward."

"Do we have a deal, Nick?"

Nick was quiet for a very long time.

* * *

Grissom folded his arms on the hood of the 1998 Chevy Silverado and buried his head in them. His shift had technically ended four hours ago, and he had planned on going home and possibly watching a good Alfred Hitchcock movie. He had intended on inviting Sara to join him, feeling bad that he hadn't seen her for so long. He hadn't been avoiding her, or at least not consciously, he had just been very busy and Sara was a huge (but often welcome) distraction for him.

This Cop Killer case had taken a lot out of him as they'd been put under a lot of pressure to solve it from pretty much every angle. Every single office was working overtime on the case because he was killing people from every department. For some reason, possibly because his insomnia had returned and began to take its toll on his wits, it had never occurred to Grissom that this killer would eventually target the crime lab, let alone his team. He should have taken more precautions to ensure their safety, particularly after what happened to Nick.

There were so many things Grissom told himself that he should have done and he was hitting himself over the head with all of them. But then he told himself to shut up. There was nothing he could have done to prevent this. He couldn't have known that the bar restroom crime scene was a trap. For one thing, the Cop Killer didn't use traps, not like Gordon did with Nick. He generally followed his victims and took them out of their own homes. This was completely out of his routine. Even if Grissom had suspected he'd target a CSI, he wouldn't have thought that they'd be taken on the job. But there were some things he would have done.

He would have kept Sara closer to him, for one. He would have made sure she got home at the end of her shifts. And he wouldn't have avoided her as much as he'd done.

Grissom kicked the tire of the old Chevy hard with his boot. He'd been lucky enough to find several hair samples, as well as some dry blood on one of the mats in the back seat. The problem was, since this car actually belonged to the Mailers, most of what he collected could probably link to them as well.

There was a fresh muddy footprint on the driver's side that he catalogued, though, and since it was still wet he assumed it was actually left by Woodward this morning. Hopefully the footprint would match his shoes, and they could possibly get something out of the soil sample.

Grissom looked off into the horizon, where according to Brass, Sara's jeep drove off into. The stretch of highway was long and headed back towards the city, but beyond that they had no idea where the car was going. They had sent the license plate number to the LVPD and they were keeping their eyes open for a car that matched the description of Sara's jeep.

There were so many thing Grissom could do. He noticed things other people didn't. he had helped to solve countless cases in his years as a CSI. He had stopped criminals. He had saved lives. So why was he unable to save her?

Grissom put the samples he collected into his car and told himself to stop thinking like that. Internal dialoging was another thing he was particularly good at. Most people had only one voice in their heads, while he generally had at least two, if not more. Sometimes he wondered if it was normal. And then he told himself he was being paranoid. And now, all his voices sounded like Sara's.

Grissom climbed into the front seat of his car and tried not to think about the horrors Sara and Greg must have been enduring at that moment as he sat comfortably in his seat. He knew from experience it only made things worse.

When Nick was taken from them, Grissom had made a promise to never let anything like that happen to any of them ever again. He had gone through enough hell as it was with _one_ of his team missing. But now, some sick criminal had stolen two of them right out from under him and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. He wasn't a very personable guy and his team was quite literally his family. Greg used to look up to him. And Sara, Sara used to trust him like he trusted her, which was a big deal for both of them. How could he have let any harm come to either of them? Had he let them both down?

His second voice came in and told him he was being ridiculous again. There was nothing in the world he could have done, just like there was nothing more he could have done to prevent Nick's kidnapping. And all he could do now was collect the evidence and see if it led to their rescue. And if it didn't, the least he could do was make sure the man responsible would pay.

Grissom was about to turn the ignition when he told himself that he couldn't avoid the inevitable for any longer than he'd already procrastinated. He sighed and pulled out his cell phone and Greg's file.

"Hello?"

Grissom squinted at the name in the file. "Hello, this is Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab, can I please speak with Lillian Sanders?"

"Oh my God…" came the voice on the other end. "This is Lillian Sanders, did you say the Crime Lab? That's where my son Greg works, do you know him?"

"Yes, ma'am, actually, that's the reason I'm calling—"

"Is he getting an award or something?"

"No, ma'am," Grissom said. "I'm afraid I have some bad news…"


	4. Constrictor

**_Author's Note:_** I have good news and bad news for you folks. The bad news is, my laptop is still broken and probably will be for a week or two. The good news is I was able to retrieve all my documents off of the C drive so I can now upload my story daily, as I originally promised. :o) Here's chapter three to make up for the absence in activity previously.

Also, the rating of this story may increase later, when I take future chapters in account. Just a warning.

* * *

Sara was curled up in the corner of the cell, hugging her knees close to her chest. She was too tired to move, but too afraid to sleep. She began to sing herself a lullaby her mother used to hum to her. It reminded her of the sleepless nights after listening to one of her parents' fights. Afterwards, her mother would always come to her room and rock her back and forth in her arms, singing her to sleep again. After an hour or so she was too tired to continue and slowly faded into silence. 

"Please, don't stop."

Sara's ears perked up at the sound of anything other than her own voice. "Greg? Are you awake?"

"Unfortunately." His voice was hoarse and laden with lethargy.

"Do you hurt?"

He yawned before he answered. "Like a bitch now that the drugs are wearing off. But your singing made it a little better."

Sara smiled and shook her head. "Oh Greg. Why is it that even in a situation like this you still make me smile?"

"Because of my debonair good looks and wonderful wit?" His voice was still tired, but his words still held that spark of defiance that Sara couldn't help but respect.

"You have a lot more character than people give you credit for, Greg."

He coughed, awkwardly. "Thank you, Sara. That… really means a lot. Coming from you."

"Hell, Greg, you got shot and drugged and you're _still_ cracking jokes," Sara said with a sad smile. "And I've seen you at work. Sometimes you go through a lot more than that and still have that wacky smile on your face."

He was quiet a moment. "I'm going to get you out of that cage."

"Can you walk?" Sara asked, rising to her own feet and walking to the door of her chain link cell. Her fingers gripped the tough wire as she looked over at Greg who was still lying on the operating table.

"Probably," said Greg. "If it doesn't kill me."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't use that turn of phrase," Sara said.

Greg swung his legs over the side of the table and sat up. For a moment, Sara caught a glimpse of his bruised naked chest in the dim light before Greg grabbed his shirt and put it on. He slid off the table and wavered. "Whoa…"

"You OK, Greg?" Sara called to him.

"Do you remember in college when your friend told you that there wasn't as much alcohol in a jello shot as there was in a normal shot and you ended up doing eight in a row?"

"No," said Sara.

"And do you remember waking up the next morning with the worst hangover you've ever had?"

Sara chuckled, "_That_ I remember."

"Yeah, it's that times three." Greg rubbed his head with his good arm.

"Take it easy, Greg. I don't need to get out of here."

"Are you kidding?" Greg exclaimed, incredulously. "Oh, I'm getting you out of there if I have to drag myself over there with my one good arm. See, I have a plan."

"Oh, and what's that?" Sara asked.

Greg ticked off the steps on his fingers. "Step One: Get Sara out of the chain link cell. Step Two: Get Sara out of the creepy mad-scientist warehouse. Step Three: Rescue the damsel in distress and be showered with admiration, worship, and lovely ladies." Greg slid off the operating table and wavered a bit. He held onto the table for stability.

"Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine, Sara," said Greg, his voice full of stubbornness. "Hang in there, I'll be right over."

Sara had to smile as she watched Greg stagger over to her on wobbly legs. He fumbled with the lock and the door came open. Sara couldn't help herself. The minute he got that door open, she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.

"I know this is a horrible situation, Greg," Sara said. "And as much as I wish you weren't here… I'm really glad I'm not alone."

"Hey, Sara, believe me," said Greg, caught off guard by her kiss. "Before you kissed me, I wished I wasn't here too."

"How can you even flirt at a time like this?" Sara said, hitting him on the right part of his chest.

"Ow," said Greg, pulling away in mock pain. "I was shot you know."

"In your _left_ shoulder," said Sara. "Now come on, let's see if we can get out of here."

Sara let Greg throw his right arm around her as he limped along side her towards the big door their kidnapper had disappeared out of. Sara wriggled out from under Greg's lean and went to the side of the door and tried to slide it open. It was caught by a lock and chain on the other side.

"Easy as pie to break," said Greg, "With all the equipment over there, I saw some stuff that would cut through bone."

"Please don't say that right now," said Sara, the image of Greg sprawled out on the operating table vivid in her mind.

"Run over and get the hacksaw over there," said Greg, examining the chain. He stared out the small gap between the door and the wall, bathing in the sliver of sunlight that was cast into the warehouse. He looked behind him as Sara ran through the light and it caught her hair. It made him smile.

She returned with the hacksaw. "I can only imagine what he does with this," she said.

"That doesn't matter now," said Greg. "All that matters is what _we_ do with it." He tried to take the saw from her but she pulled it out of his reach.

"You were shot. Remember?" Her eyebrows were raised, but her lips were straight.

"I can saw with one arm," said Greg, stubbornly.

"But I can saw with two and take half as long," said Sara, making her way toward the door.

Greg pouted. "I wanted to save the damsel in distress. I wanted to be the knight in shining armor."

"Tell you what," said Sara, working away at the chain. "When we can get out of here you can throw me on your majestic horse and ride off into the sunset."

Greg stared at the floor and mumbled. "It's when girls say stuff like that when I really wish I had a horse."

"What?" Sara called over to him, not being able to hear him over the noise of metal on metal.

"If I could fold my arms right now, I would," Greg shouted over at her. Instead, he sat down defiantly on the floor and watched her work. Every now and again, the friction got hard enough to create sparks which fell to the floor. Greg watched them casually. But then he frowned as he saw what lined the base of the door.

"Sara," he said, his voice just above a whisper. His next call was louder, more confident. "Sara!"

"What?" Sara called over to him, still sawing.

"Cut that out," Greg said, trying to get to his feet.

Sara stopped and looked at him curiously. "Why?"

Greg pointed to the substance on the ground. "That looks like gun powder. And I wouldn't put it past him."

Sara backed away and looked at the black powder. "Gun powder?"

"And I bet if your sparks don't set it off," said Greg, "that there's a trigger mechanism somewhere in the middle that's set to go when the door slides past."

"Son of a bitch…" Sara muttered. "He booby trapped it."

"We could have been exploded…" Greg's voice was very quiet.

"He warned us not to underestimate him," Sara said. "I'll give him one thing, he's thought of everything."

"It's impossible to think of everything," said Greg. "He just thought of most things. We have to think of the rest."

"It'll take a while," Sara said. "He'll probably get back before we figure it out."

"So we'll just have to survive until we think of something," said Greg. "Or until Grissom and the rescue team get here."

Sara closed her eyes. "Please don't mention Grissom right now either."

"I think you need to make a list of words I can't say," said Greg.

"Well Grissom would be on the top of that list," Sara replied.

"What's the deal with you two, anyway?" Greg asked as she sat next to him on the floor.

"Sometimes I think I know," said Sara. "And then others I have no idea."

"Are you guys… like… together yet, or what?" Greg asked.

Sara looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Well…"

"I knew it," Greg said, unable to help sounding a little disappointed.

Sara looked up at him, hearing the despondency in his voice. She took a deep breath and almost wanted to comfort him. For the first time instead of teasing him for the little crush he so obviously had on her, she wanted to reassure him that she didn't think it was as frivolous as she had previously implied.

"Greg, I know that I generally…"

"Treat me like dirt?" Greg muttered.

"You get teased a lot, like the youngest child in a big family, but sometimes I don't think people take you as seriously as they should," Sara said. "It takes a long time for me to… for me to trust people. Grissom and I are kind of similar when it comes to interpersonal relationships. It's taken us a long time for us even to get to the point we're at now. I don't mean to belittle you when you do things, it's just that…"

"Don't bother, Sara," Greg interrupted, flashing her that silly grin of his. "I know."

They sat in silence on the floor for a long time, each left to their own thoughts.

"Greg?" Sara said, her voice echoing in the large warehouse.

"Mm?" Greg intoned.

"We might never leave here."

"Sara," Greg replied. "You have a list of words I can't mention. I have a list of topics you can't bring up."

Sara grew quiet again for a moment. "It's just…" she began uncertainly. "I've never thought of an answer to that question, you know, the one where if someone told you that you had one day left to live, what would you do. I kinda wish I had an answer for that."

"Well," said Greg, taking a deep breath. "I never really had an answer to that either. I always said something stupid like go to Disney World or something but…" He trailed off. Sara waited. "But I think that, in a situation like that, I'd…" He turned to look at her. When their eyes met, he turned away sharply. "I'd probably say whatever I'd do, I'd want to spend it with my friends. With… well, you, Sara."

Sara smiled, a little bashful herself, and looked away from Greg herself. Neither one looked up at each other. And then, Greg said something else.

"I won't let him hurt you, Sara," he said. "I promise."

It was those words again. When Greg said them now, completely sober and mobile, Sara just dissolved. She began to sob full force, her vision blurry and her head pounding as she took in short sharp breaths. She hugged her knees to her chest again and buried her face in her jeans. She felt something warm sliding across her back and someone lightly kissing the top of her head. She turned towards Greg and wrapped her arms around his waist as she sobbed into his chest. He could only hold her with one arm, but it was all the comfort Sara needed just to know that he was there as she let every tension in her body crawl out of her eyes. She was a wreck, completely discomposed, falling to pieces before his eyes, and for once she didn't care about looking weak or seeming foolish. She was scared, and so was he, but at least they could be scared together.

* * *

After searching everywhere else, Catherine finally stumbled on Warrick in the lobby, sitting in one of the waiting room chairs reading a book. 

"Warrick," she said. "What have you been doing, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Warrick held up the book so Catherine could see the title as he continued to read. _The Lonely Ranger: The Life And Times of Ryan Woodward._

"Ah…" Catherine said. She took a seat next to Warrick and watched his face as he continued to read.

"Did you know there's a whole chapter in here dedicated to one Nick Stokes?" Warrick asked, not looking at her.

Catherine frowned. "What?" she said. "Nick Stokes, _our_ Nick Stokes? Nicky?"

"A Nick Stokes from Dallas Texas who majored in criminal justice at A&M. Dad's a judge, mom's a public defender… I'd say it sounds like our Nick Stokes, wouldn't you?"

Catherine took the book from Warrick and looked at the chapter he was reading. "What does this guy have to do with Nick?"

"Oh, they were best friends," said Warrick sarcastically. "Fraternity brothers in college. The way Woodward writes, you'd think Nick was some sort of demigod. Hercules or something."

Catherine scanned the pages. "Nick never mentioned this guy to us before."

"I don't think they were as close as Woodward would have hoped they'd be," said Warrick. "Later in the chapter he talks about a girl, Dana Blanchard, and how Nick treated her terribly. There was a case in '95 about her rape and murder. Woodward implies he's sure Nick did it, but it was never proven."

"Nick goes from a god to a devil in Woodward's eyes," Catherine said. "Why the change?"

"Who knows," said Warrick. "The book doesn't say…" He let her read on for a moment. "Cath."

Catherine looked up at him. "What is it?"

"He's the one who has Greg and Sara," Warrick said. "He called Nick earlier today. Kept talking like he knew him. Nick had no idea who it was, or none that I could see."

"Is that why he was so unnerved earlier?" Catherine asked. "I thought it was just because Greg and Sara were missing."

"There's more," Warrick said, gravely. "He said something to Nick that scared the hell out of him. I could see it in him, his whole body was tense, his eyes were panicking. He wouldn't talk about it. He said it was for my safety."

"Where is Nick now?" Catherine asked, all of a sudden feeling very nervous.

"He wouldn't tell me," Warrick said. "All he said was he had to do something."

"Do something?" Catherine said, baffled, "What something?"

As if in answer to her question, Nick entered the lobby but he wasn't alone. He was being escorted by Sofia, who was holding on fast to his arm. Nick looked absolutely exhausted.

"Catherine, Warrick" she said, sounding glad to see them. "Maybe you could knock some sense into this boy." Catherine and Warrick rose to their feet, Warrick taking the book back from Catherine.

"Nick," said Warrick. "Where have you been, man?"

Nick glanced at Sofia looking almost cynical and then back to Warrick, his eyes dull and dark. "Talking to the fine detectives in homicide," he said.

"About how he supposedly killed a woman in Texas twelve years ago," Sofia finished for him. "Tell him to stop being ridiculous. I don't want to charge him."

Warrick dropped the book. "Dana Blanchard?" he asked, breathless.

Sofia looked very confused. "Dana… Warrick, how do you know that?"

"Yeah," Nick said, looking Warrick straight in the eye. "Dana Blanchard."

"You can't be serious," Catherine said. "Warrick and I just…"

She trailed off as she saw Warrick walk over to Nick and take him firmly by the shoulders. They stared each other in the eye for what seemed like hours, neither one wavering even a bit. "Nick," said Warrick, still gazing staunchly into his eyes. "You would get the death penalty for this. And Texas has killed a lot more prisoners than we have. They're prompt with that sort of thing. I saw you earlier. Something else is at work here. You did _not_ kill that woman."

Nick pushed a file into Warrick's chest, his gaze also never leaving Warrick's. "It's all in the file. My DNA was all over the scene. I told them it was because I was there earlier. The only reason they couldn't charge me then was because they couldn't match the…" he hesitated, but only for a second "… DNA in the semen to me. But I've sat on this for too long. I have to come clean."

Warrick broke the eye contact and turned away. Catherine approached him, looking perplexed. "Nicky…" she said. "Dana Blanchard was raped before—"

"I know," said Nick, cutting her off.

"You aren't a rapist," Catherine said, so firm in her belief that she refused to even consider otherwise. But Nick said nothing.

Sofia looked from Nick to Catherine, in utter shock. She couldn't think of the right words to say. "OK," she said at last. "You're serious about this then? We'll have to send you back to Texas tomorrow to stand trial then… You'll have to stay with us tonight, though."

Nick's mood changed swiftly like the flick of a deer's tail. He turned to look at Sofia, his dark eyes wide. "I get a phone call," he said.

"As soon as we get there," Sofia said with a nod, her eyes still wide in disbelief.

"Good," said Nick. "Cuff me."

Sofia took out her handcuffs and looked at them. "You're being cooperative, I don't see any need to—

"Cuff me," Nick repeated, firmly.

Sofia looked truly remorseful as she held up the cuffs. "I'm sorry, Nick, but…"

"Yeah," said Nick, turning around and putting his wrists together. Warrick and Catherine watched them exit.

"I don't believe it," said Catherine.

"Me neither," Warrick agreed, his voice sounding several degrees colder. "Did you hear that? He couldn't talk about the rape. He hesitated before even mentioning the semen. He's lying."

"But why?" Catherine asked the obvious question. "It makes absolutely no sense!"

"Maybe our friend Mr. Woodward can clear that up for us," Warrick answered.

"Assuming we can find him first," Catherine replied.

They both stared at the door through which Sofia and Nick had just exited.

"Oh shit," Catherine said suddenly.

"What?" Warrick asked.

"How the hell am I going to explain this to Grissom?"

* * *

Nick held the phone close as he turned away from Sofia's prying and curious eyes. _Come on, Woodward_, he thought to himself, _pick up Greg's phone._

On the sixth ring, Nick finally got an answer. "Hello, this wouldn't happen to be the Las Vegas Police Department, would it?"

"Alright," Nick said sharply. "You got what you wanted. I confessed, I'm in jail, this is my one phone call and you better damn well stick to your word."

"Oh yes," said Woodward. "I won't hurt little Greg or Sara."

"You'll let them go," Nick snarled like a feral dog. "You'll let them go right now, or so help me God, Woodward I'll tell them all the truth."

"Look at you," Woodward said, condescendingly impressed. "Making threats like you know exactly what's going on. Nick, you forget that I still hold the most important card here. Or should I say, the _two_ most important cards. They go by the names of Sara and Greg?"

"Exactly," Nick said. "Let them go."

"Aw, but Nick," Woodward, feigning regret, "How can I know you won't just come clean about everything the moment Nick and Sara are back in safe hands? No, no, I can't give up my best bargaining chips yet. You need to be at least in Texas before that happens. Maybe a good way through your trial… Wait until they uncover more evidence against you, then recanting your confession will just further underline your guilt. You see, Nick, they have to _believe _you did it before I let Sara and Greg go."

"That wasn't part of the deal, asswipe," Nick growled.

"The deal was they wouldn't be harmed," said Woodward. "And they won't be. So long as you behave. Believe me, Nick, it's hard on me too. To keep my hands off of that beautifully sumptuous piece of—"

"If you ever talk about Sara that way again, I'll kill you," Nick hissed, meaning every syllable.

"My point is, Nick," Woodward said, annoyed, "that Sara and Greg will be hard to keep unharmed. So you better be a good little boy in that prison of yours, or I just won't be able to help myself."

"Woodward, let them go!" Nick said sternly into the phone, but Woodward had already hung up. Annoyed, Nick threw the receiver down.

"Your lawyer unsympathetic?" Sofia asked, suddenly behind him. Nick jumped. She seemed unwilling to leave his side, insisting on staying with him regardless of the resistance she met from both Nick and the warden, but Sofia was as stubborn as the best of them.

"Why don't you just leave me here, Sofia?" Nick asked as the guards came to escort him back to his cell. "You've done your job."

"I haven't," said Sofia. "My job is to protect the innocent."

"I'm far from innocent," Nick replied.

"True," Sofia admitted. "But you didn't kill that girl."

"Why is everyone acting like they know me _so well_ today?" Nick asked, frustrated.

"Stokes—time to go." A guard grabbed him by the arm and he rolled his eyes and walked with them. Sofia matched his pace and walked along side them.

"I've never arrested a man that I truly thought was not guilty," Sofia confessed. "Nick, what's going on?"

They approached the area where the prisoners were kept. "Ma'am, you're gonna have to stay out here," one of the guards said to her.

"But—"

"I know you're a detective," he interrupted. "But the warden insists, ma'am."

Sofia sighed, resigned. "Alright then." She watched as they took Nick beyond the bars. She called after them. "We'll fix this, Nick. We'll make everything right again."

"Good luck!" Nick called back to her over his shoulder.


	5. Fangs

_**Author's Note:** _OK, remember how I warned you this might get a little ugly? Enough to warrant a higher rating? Well, that's NEXT chapter. I am going back and forth. I think it's still under the T-rating according to guidelines, but just barely. Nothing exceptionally graphic. Just a whole lot of violence and blood, which we get from CSI generally anyways. So I may keep the rating the same for the next chapter. If you guys disagree, let me know. I'm not really the MPAA so I am not so hot on this rating thing. In the meantime, enjoy your T-Rated Chapter Five!

By the way, the Easter Egg in Chapter Three was a "Norman Mailer" reference. He's old. So if you don't know who he is, Google him and you'll find out.

* * *

Greg held her as tight as he could with his one arm until her sobs turned into gasps for air, and until the gasps of air eventually became a slow and steady rhythm. Her head rested in his lap as he stroked her hair, watching her sleep. He was just as scared as she was, and for the both of them. He promised her that nothing would happen to her. So long as she felt safe with him, then he could find courage from her. 

He leaned back on the floor and stared at the high ceiling. So the door to the warehouse was booby trapped. That didn't mean there wasn't another way out. They could dig a hole like in all those prison break movies. And they actually had shovels, so they wouldn't need to use spoons. But the floor to the warehouse was concrete. So maybe that wasn't such a hot idea after all.

Somewhere in his wonderings, Greg felt he must have stopped thinking and drifted off somewhere else. Sara's faraway voice brought him back to his senses.

She was leaning over him, a hand on either side of him as she sat off to his right. Her hair dangled down and tickled his nose. A halo of gold lit the top of her brown hair as the sunlight from the door struck it just right. He smiled up at her and she returned it gratefully.

"Just making sure you were still alive, hot shot," she said, straightening up. Greg put his hand on hers.

"There are things we never say," he whispered, "because we're afraid of being mistaken."

"I am often mistaken," Sara replied, "even when there are no words."

"You are a firecracker," Greg said.

She grinned at him and lied down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. "If you close your eyes really tight, you can kind of see the stars."

"It's the afternoon," Greg said absently.

"It doesn't matter in here," Sara replied, moving closer to him and resting her head on his chest. She began tracing little circles on his stomach. Her hair smelt like strawberries. Greg closed his eyes. "Do you think we'll see the sunrise?"

"We can if you want to."

"David Hume said we only believe the sun will rise since it has so many times before," Sara said, her voice just above a whisper. "But for plenty of people, they reach a point in their life when the sun just stops rising."

"If you want to see the sunrise, Sara, I'll rip the goddamn roof off," Greg said, breathing in her strawberry hair.

"Tell me a joke," Sara said.

"Imagine a flock of birds," Greg began. "It's the end of October and they'd forgotten it was time to fly south. In the confusion, they end up flying east and they get caught in a hurricane." He looked down at Sara. "They fall out of the sky like multicolored angels."

Sara moved her head until she could look him in his eyes. "There are things we never say," she whispered, "because we're afraid of being found out."

Greg took a strand of her hair and pushed it behind her ear before gently caressing her lips with his. She was soft and sweet and comfortingly familiar, like an old melody he remembered from his childhood. She tasted sharply sweet, like apple cinamon. His hand stroked her soft brown hair. And even through their kiss, her words rang in his head.

_This is one thing I will probably never say._

Greg's eyes snapped open and his world was cold again. Even the sunlight from the door seemed to be darkened by a storm cloud. Sara was sound asleep on his chest, her body laying perpendicular to his, not parallel as he had dreamed. He sighed as he stared at the gray ceiling and stroked her hair. She still smelled of strawberries. At least that was one thing he could hold onto.

* * *

"This is fantastic." 

"There's no need for sarcasm, Grissom."

"No, really, this is fantastic." Grissom rolled his eyes and paced up and down the lab as Catherine stared at him, feeling very small in the face of Grissom's fury. "I have two members of my team under the watch of a serial killer and one confessing to the rape and murder of a cold case from Texas!" He snapped his head around and barked at Hodges. "Are the results back from those hair samples?"

"Grissom, you just _gave_ them to me twenty minutes ago, what am I, a wizard? I don't—"

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed, Hodges, thanks," Grissom said, leaving the lab with Catherine close on his tail.

"Grissom," Catherine said, catching up to him. "I know it's bad."

"Oh," Grissom said with a stressed laugh, "Bad doesn't _begin _to describe it."

"Where are you going?" Catherine asked.

"To talk to Nick," Grissom replied. "Ask him what the hell is going on."

"Gil!" Catherine caught him by the shoulder and he spun around.

"_What?!_" he boomed, as loud as Catherine had ever heard him. She was stunned, as were the innocent bystanders in the hallway, who quickly picked up the pace to get out of the immediate vicinity as soon as possible. When the hallway was clear, only Catherine and Grissom remained.

Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath as his heart rate came down. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I'm not myself today."

"None of us are," Catherine replied quietly.

Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I just… I have the biggest migraine, Greg and Sara, and… Oh God, Sara…"

"Sh," Catherine hushed him, rubbing his arm. "It'll all work out. You'll see."

"We always say that, don't we?" Grissom asked, putting his glasses back on.

"It always does, doesn't it?" Catherine asked.

"It all works out," Grissom agreed. "Not exactly the best way it could have."

Catherine looked down. "For better or worse, right?"

"Wrong," Grissom said. "I won't settle for anything less than the best, Catherine. I need to talk to Nick."

"It won't do any good," Catherine said. "His mouth might as well be sewn shut for all the useless dribble he feeds us."

"Dribble…" Grissom muttered. "We don't know what Woodward said to him when he called earlier, do we?"

"No." Catherine sighed, sounding exhausted.

Grissom thought for a moment. "Do we have Nick's phone?"

"It would have been taken from him before he went to jail," Catherine said. "Why?"

Grissom's mouth twitched. "I think we have the chance to hear the story straight from the horse's mouth."

* * *

The sound of the door opening jolted Sara awake. She noticed the pain in her back right away and stretched out her neck. Then she remembered where she'd fallen asleep. She lifted her head up off of Greg's chest and looked at him. He was awake now too, and he was staring at the shadowy figure in the doorway. The way his form blocked the sunlight from them made Sara think of how people thousands of years ago must have perceived eclipses. He looked ominous and deadly. 

"Aw," he said, seeing them lying there. "How cute."

"The gun powder—" Greg began.

"Ah, yes, you are clever, aren't you? I suppose CSIs have to be observant though." He closed the door behind him. "Let me worry about that now, shall we?"

He seized Sara by the wrist and she cried out as he pulled her to her feet. Greg reached after her and sat up as fast as he could.

"Let her go!" he demanded as the kidnapper snaked his arms around Sara's waist. She struggled against his grip.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I liked spunk, Sara," he hissed.

Greg leapt to his feet and grabbed the hacksaw. He held it threateningly. "I said _let her go!_"

"You made a deal," Sara cried, still trying to escape his grip. "Nick listens to you, and we go free."

"The deal's changed," he said with a grin. "Nick Stokes is in jail."

"Jail?" Sara exclaimed.

"Is anyone paying attention to the wounded guy with the hacksaw?" Greg demanded, looking from one person to the other.

"Ah, yes," said the kidnapper. "Little Greg has a new toy."

All of a sudden, Sara stopped struggling, but Greg could not see why. The kidnapper was looking at Greg over her shoulder. He brushed the hair away from her neck and she inhaled sharply. He leant over her neck, reminding Greg of old Dracula movies.

"Don't you touch her," he threatened, the hacksaw now shaking like the rest of him.

The kidnapper's eyes did not leave Greg's as he lowered his lips to Sara's neck. Greg tightened his grip on the hacksaw.

"I'm warning you!" Greg said.

"And I'm showing you how serious I'm taking you," the kidnapper replied, his lips right above Sara's flesh. His breath made her shutter. He began to kiss her neck softly.

"No!" Greg yelled, but he was completely at a loss for what to do. He looked at his hacksaw, and then at the kidnapper, his filthy lips all over Sara's neck. Scared and enraged, Greg did something completely stupid. With a roar to rival Mel Gibson's battle cry in Braveheart, Greg launched himself at the two of them with the hacksaw held high above his head.

There was a loud ping and all of a sudden the hacksaw wasn't in Greg's hands anymore. He stopped and looked around. It had landed several feet away from him. The kidnapper had pulled his hand from out behind Sara's stomach and was aiming a gun at Greg as he continued to kiss Sara's neck. Greg backed away slowly, his hands raised.

"That's not fair," he said.

The kidnapper tore his lips away from Sara (much to Greg's relief) but the gun disappeared behind her stomach again. "Life isn't generally fair, Mr. Sanders," he yelled, his voice booming in the warehouse. Sara seemed to be shaking uncontrollably in his arms. Greg wished he could see her face. She had drawn the kidnapper's attention too as he looked at her in what looked to Greg to be a hideous contortion of concern. It made his blood boil just thinking about it. He wished he had his hacksaw back.

"What is it, baby doll?" the kidnapper whispered into her hair. "Are you cold? Are you sad?" He looked up at Greg. "Now look what you did. You made her upset."

"Fuck you," Greg snapped.

"It's a terrible feeling, isn't it Greg?" the kidnapper asked. "To be helpless. You're unbound and conscious, and yet you can't move a muscle to help your friend."

"I…" Greg searched for something witty to say. "Fuck your mother."

"Clever," the kidnapper said with a grin. He began to kiss Sara's neck again, this time moving down her shoulder. Greg really, _really_ missed his hacksaw. Force and wit had failed him. Time to try a different tactic. Surrender.

Greg dropped to his knees, defeated. "OK," said Greg. "You made your point. Would you please leave Sara alone?"

He still wouldn't stop. In fact, it began to get worse as the hand that didn't hold his gun was wandering all over Sara. It made Greg want to throw up.

"I said _stop it_!" he yelled, knowing it would have no effect. He glanced at the hacksaw a few feet away from him. He knew if he ran at them again, the kidnapper would shoot _him _this time instead of the hacksaw. But the things he was _doing_ to Sara.

Greg made his decision. He rose slowly to his feet and got in a sprinting position. He ran at them.

In the next second, so many things happened at once, no one was quite sure in what order. For one, the kidnapper pulled out the gun and aimed it at Greg's head. For another, a phone started to ring. And for a third, Sara kneed her attacker in the groin.

All these things combined resulted in a bullet missing Greg's head by a mile, Greg landing on top of Sara and pushing her to the ground, and the kidnapper doubled over in pain.

The phone was still ringing.

Sara looked up at Greg, who had his hands on either side of her by her shoulders. He propped himself up and looked down at her. He gave her a weak, sheepish smile, and she didn't know what to say.

"Where's that phone coming from?"

"What?" Greg asked.

The phone continued to ring.

"That's my phone," Greg said. "He must still have it."

"If we can get it from him," Sara said, "we can call out. I _drove_ here. I know where we are."

"Right," said Greg. "Good plan."

"Um, Greg?" Sara said. "That would require you getting _off_ of me."

"Oh, yeah," Greg rolled off of her and she made a dash for the kidnapper, still doubled over in pain. She knocked him off his feet and tried to find where the phone was in his pockets.

"Aren't we frisky?" he said through his pain, and for that she bit his finger when it reached out to her.

The phone stopped ringing.

She didn't care. She kept looking for it until there was a flash and she felt a sharp pain in her forehead. She reached up a hand to examine it as blood dripped into her eyes. She realized that he'd sliced a nice cut from her forehead towards her cheek, cutting the corner of her left eye. She was lucky he didn't slice an inch more to her right or she could have been blinded. He then kicked her off of him and got to his feet. She staggered over to Greg, who immediately came to her aid as their kidnapper, beads of sweat dripping down his face, pulled out his gun again.

"Jesus," he said, breathless, obviously still in pain from Sara's first well-aimed attack. "I don't think I've ever gotten so much trouble from you guys before."

"That's what you get when you pick on CSIs," Greg said proudly, trying to sound like some sort of superhero.

"It's what I get for picking on a nasty cunt and her brainless lapdog," the kidnapper snapped back.

"What did you just call her?" Greg demanded, ready to jump on him again.

Their kidnapper was laughing as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the gun still pointed at Sara and Greg both. "You two— into the cage. _Now._"

Having enough excitement for one escape attempt, Sara and Greg obliged. Their kidnapper came over and locked them in. The phone began to ring again. He looked at the name and smiled before he answered.

"Nick Stokes," he said casually. "Why, I thought they took your cell phone away from you when you confess to murder."

Greg and Sara didn't know what was said on the other end, but whatever it was made the color drain from their kidnapper's face.

* * *

"I thought they took your cell phone away from you when you confess to murder." 

"They do," said Grissom into Nick's phone. "Hello, Mr. Woodward."

"Who is this?"

"We know what you're doing," Grissom said. "We want you to stop."

"What?"

"We know you're blackmailing Nick," Grissom explained. "And we want our friends back."

"Who the hell is this?" The scream was so loud, even Catherine and Warrick could hear it and Woodward wasn't on speaker phone this time.

"My name is Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Grissom answered calmly. "And I just want to talk."

"Son of a…"

"Can I talk to Greg or Sara?" Grissom said.

"Fuck no, you can't talk to them!" Woodward yelled.

"You're upset," Grissom said, still calm. "If you cooperate, we'll take the death penalty off the table, Mr. Woodward. We just want everyone to come out of this alive. Give the phone to Sara or Greg."

"Why the hell do you want to talk to that bitch so badly?" Woodward demanded.

"Because she's my—" Grissom interrupted himself, took a breath and calmed down. "Because she and Greg are very important to me."

"No," said Woodward. "Just no."

"If you comply, we might be able to make a deal," said Grissom.

"Last deal I made, Mr. Grissom, was with Nick Stokes and if he broke that, why the fuck should I trust you?"

Grissom looked at Catherine and Warrick before replying. "Nick and you had a deal?" Grissom said. "Did that include making him confess to a crime he didn't commit?"

"Don't play dumb with _me_ Mr. Grissom, he told you, I know he told you!" said Woodward, sounding panicked. "No. _Hell_ no. No, he broke the deal, he _broke _it, I warned him, I warned him this would happen, tell Nick that he's left me no choice."

"Mr. Woodward—" but the line was dead.

"He thinks Nick told us," Catherine said.

"Yeah," said Grissom, sounding unnerved. "He didn't respond like I expected. Warrick, go talk to Nick. Tell him what happened. There's something else going on here."

"On it," Warrick said, and disappeared.

"Oh Grissom?"

"What is it, Hodges?" Grissom asked, turning. Hodges waved some papers at him.

"I have the results to your hair samples. Two samples belong to Judge Danielle Porter, and one to Eric Sanchez, found last week."

"At least we have a solid case," Grissom said.

"There's more," said Hodges. "A few of them belonged to members of the Mailer family, but we don't care about that. I couldn't match one sample, but it does have several alleles in common with Catherine's DNA."

"Aw, Jesus," Catherine said. "She was in that _car_. It's Lindsey's. Her boyfriend's the one who leant the car to Woodward."

"Anything else, Hodges?" Grissom asked.

"Actually, yes, thank you for asking," Hodges grinned. "The soil sample you got from the car contained an excess amount of copper."

"There's copper in the industrial district where the old mines used to me," Catherine said, her eyes wide with excitement. "Gil, we finally might have something here."

"Do you know how huge the industrial district is?" Grissom said, too tired to keep standing. "We need something more specific. Thank you, Hodges."

Hodges set the papers down and left and it was just Catherine and Grissom alone. "Ecklie said…"

"Screw Ecklie," Catherine interrupted.

Grissom blinked at her, and continued his sentence. "… to keep him posted on what's going on with Greg and Sara's case."

"Oh." Catherine was really quiet. "I thought he told you to do something annoying. What's he think he's doing in LA anyway? I bet he's looking for George Clooney to sign his ass or something."

Grissom smiled at her. "You sounded like Sara for a minute there."

Catherine returned the smile. "It's good to see you smile like that again."

"I wish I knew what was going on," Grissom said. "I don't think there has ever been so much information being kept from me that I really wish I knew. Nick making deals with serial killers, Greg and Sara missing and God knows _what_ is happening to them… At least when Nick was in trouble, we could make sure he was still alive."

"Sara's alive, Gil," Catherine said. "And so is Greg."

"How do you know?" Grissom asked.

"Ironically, because Nick is still lying to us," Catherine replied. "He wouldn't keep up this charade if there was no hope of saving Greg and Sara."

"That's a good point," Grissom admitted.

"What did Greg's parents say when you told them?" Catherine asked.

Grissom shifted awkwardly in his chair. "They both insisted on coming down after I called. I don't think they've even left the waiting room for a cup of coffee. To be honest, I'm avoiding them. They scare me."

"Because you don't know what to say?" Catherine asked.

"That," Grissom admitted, "but also every time I walk by there, Mrs. Sanders ambushes me and bombards me with questions and chatter; I can barely make it out alive. I see why Greg was so afraid of worrying them. I haven't even heard the father say a single word. He just sits there, pale as a ghost, staring out in front like he's catatonic. It's creepy."

"Parents," said Catherine. She hesitated. "Have you thought to call Sara's mother?"

Grissom was quiet a moment. "I don't have a contact number for her."

"Sara didn't leave one in her file?"

"I have a feeling Sara and her mother aren't on the best of terms," Grissom said.

"There's got to be someone we can call…" Catherine said. "Sara doesn't have _nobody_…"

"You're right," Grissom said sternly. "She has me."

"Her emergency contact number, though…" Catherine said.

"It's me," Grissom replied. "I'm her emergency contact number."

"Oh." Catherine didn't know what to say. "I, uh, I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," said Grissom. "It's not exactly common knowledge."

Catherine reached over and put her hand on Grissom's. "I know I've said this time after time. But we'll get her back, Gil. We'll get them both back. Safe and sound."


	6. Deadly Venom

_**Author's Note:**_ Don't jumpt to conclusions. There are about two chapters after this. Nearly done. Kinda sad. For safety, I'm raising the rating. Tell me what you guys think.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Sara was afraid of the answer but she had to ask it anyways. Greg was squeezing her hand tightly. They both watched as their kidnapper fiddled around with all the equipment in the medically equipped corner of the warehouse. 

"My name, Miss Sidle," began their kidnapper, "is Ryan Woodward. I went to junior high, high school, and college with Nick Stokes. He was my _idol_, Miss Sidle." He was pounding something down with a pestle. "But did he ever pay attention to me? Not even a 'Hi how are ya' until I became a pledge at his fraternity. Oh, we became the _best_ of friends, Miss Sidle. For _three years_ he invited me to do _everything_ with him. But what did he do when he graduated? He forgot all about me. Little dorky Ryan, nothing but a stupid little bug he put up with only because it entertained _him._"

He finished whatever he was doing and strode quickly to the cell. Greg made Sara get behind him as Woodward opened the door.

"Step aside, Sanders," he snapped. "Unless you want to go first."

Greg didn't move. His face was set and he stood steadfast in front of Sara.

Woodward shrugged. "Alright, it's no skin off my nose." He grabbed Greg by his bad arm, which made Greg cry out.

"Greg!" Sara shouted as his good hand continued to hold onto hers. But all it took was another yank on his bad arm and he let go of her. Sara ran after them, but Woodward shut the door in her face. She clutched the chain link and saw Woodward staring back at her.

"Sorry, baby doll," Woodward said. "I was really lookin' forward to spending time with you too, but Greg volunteered."

As Woodward dragged Greg over to the operating table, Sara started screaming and rattling the gate to her cage in a vain effort to distract him. Woodward forced Greg down on the table and strapped him in place.

"What are you going to do?" Greg asked, trying to sound brave and failing. Woodward grabbed a nearby bucket which he placed next to Greg's head. "What's in there?"

"Oh you know, basic household items," Woodward replied, an insane grin on his face. "Baking soda."

"Baking soda?" Greg was baffled.

"And lime."

"And _what?!_"

Sara was still screaming. Woodward was still grinning. But Greg finally came to a terrible understanding.

"Lye?! You're going to put _lye on me?_" Greg asked.

"Not exactly," said Woodward, as he snapped his latex gloves against his wrist. He took a pair of scissors and cut open Greg's shirt, revealing his bandaged shoulder, which was in need of a change. He picked up the bucket again and put it down on a stool next to the table. He grabbed Greg's arm and dunk his hand in the bucket.

There was only one thing in the world that could have made Sara stop screaming at that moment. Greg's cries of agony not only drowned Sara out, it shut her up and all she could do was close her eyes and cover her ears.

* * *

Nick sat down behind the glass and picked up the phone as Warrick did the same. 

"Warrick, I don't know what to say to you."

"Well that's fine," Warrick replied. "Because I'm not here to ask, I'm here to tell. Grissom talked to Woodward."

"What?" Nick almost dropped the phone. "How?"

"He called Greg's phone from yours," Warrick explained. "Woodward started… freaking out. Kept saying you didn't keep your end of the deal or something."

"Aw, no, aw _no_!" Nick yelled, hitting the desk with his hand. "Warrick, what were you thinking calling him like that?"

"Well it's not like _you_ were helping us out," Warrick snapped. "Trying to be the martyr, suffer in silence and all that bullshit."

"Nah," said Nick, shaking his head. "Nah, you have _no idea_ what this means, do you?"

"What kind of a deal did you two have anyway, Nick, huh? Can you tell me that?" Warrick wasn't going to let Nick tell him what they did wrong when Nick didn't give them any way to do otherwise.

"I confess to Dana's murder and he doesn't _kill you_!" Nick yelled.

"Keep your voice down!" the guard called.

"What do you mean 'kill _me_'?" Warrick asked in a harsh whisper. "You mean Greg and Sara, don't you?"

"No," said Nick seriously. "I mean _you._ You and Greg and Sara. Grissom. Catherine. Brass, Sofia, Dr. Robins, Hodges and Ecklie too. I misbehave, he takes out the entire Vegas Crime Lab. Are you listening to me, Warrick?"

"Well so what?"

Nick was taken aback by Warrick's nonchalant response. "A serial killer threatens to kill _all_ of you and you say 'so _what_?'"

"Nick," Warrick said, "we've always trusted each other. This isn't the first death threat we've ever gotten."

"He threatened to _rape_ Sara," Nick said through gritted teeth. "Make Greg watch. I don't get that threat every day."

Warrick just blinked at him. "If you'd have told us, half of this wouldn't have happened. Grissom would never have called him and talked to him without getting all the facts from you."

"No, Grissom _would_ have called him," Nick replied. "You should have heard the things he was saying about Sara. If Grissom ever heard anyone talk that way about her, all his cool calm logic that he's so well-known for would have flown out the goddamn window."

Warrick was quiet a moment. "So you made a judgment call. I still think it was a bad choice, but it's a choice. You don't have to put up with this anymore. I'm getting you out of here. Sofia is talking to the warden as we speak."

"Good," Nick said. "Because when we find Woodward, I want to be the first to kick his ass."

* * *

Sara didn't start screaming again when Greg stopped. She had learned to stop watching, stop listening, and maybe stop going insane. 

"Come on, Sara," said Woodward. "I promise it's almost over. When did you stop looking?"

"You dipped his hands in lye," Sara choked out, her voice hoarse from screaming. "You rubbed _glass_ in his wounds."

"Mm," Woodward muttered. "And when did you lose consciousness, Greg?"

"Somewhere between the ice water and the electrodes…" Greg panted, taking deep breaths.

"You have only one person to blame for this, I hope you know," Woodward said.

"You?" Greg said, breathless.

Woodward laughed. "Nick Stokes."

"Is that what you do every time you hurt someone?" Sara asked. "Every time you feel inadequate, every time you make a mistake, is that what you do? Blame it on Nick?"

"It's his fault I'm this way!"

"Bull shit," said Sara, up against the door again. "You're just psychotic and need someone to blame."

"And you're neurotic, but no one judges _you_ for it," Woodward snapped. "Calm down, baby doll, you're next."

Greg said something barely above a whisper. Woodward smiled and leaned his ear in close to Greg's mouth.

"I'm sorry, Greg, I didn't quite catch that, what did you say?"

But at that moment, Greg leaned up and bit Woodward's ear until it bled. Through his screaming, Woodward punched Greg hard across the face, and Sara flinched as she heard something crunch. Blood was all over Greg's face, some from Woodward and some probably from Greg himself. Both men were screaming. In any other situation, Sara might have found it almost bitterly comical.

"By _dose_!" she heard Greg yell with a slight lisp as he tried to tip his head back. "Fuck!"

Meanwhile, Woodward was over by the sink, washing his ear and bandaging it. Greg was releasing a slew of obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Sanders!" Woodward yelled, his voice unusually high. Despite the torture he'd just put Greg through, Woodward was losing his nerve. Sara had dealt with his type enough times to notice. Still, the more anxious he became, the more bloodthirsty he got. So an unconfident Woodward was potentially worse than a confident one.

She was right.

Immediately after Woodward finished wrapping his ear, he strode purposefully toward Sara's cell and flung open the door. She yelped and jumped backward and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the cage.

Through Greg's blinding pain and cursing he seemed to come to his senses enough to realize what was going on with Sara.

"Doe!" he yelled. "Fuck! Get your hands _off_ of her!"

He struggled against his bonds but he was too weak and in too much pain to do anything. Woodward pulled Sara over to the corner where Greg was, holding fast to her wrist. She tried another of her self defense moves on him but he saw it coming this time and countered it. He was pissed off and he was running out of time. He pressed a button and the operating table elevated like a dentist's chair and slowly became vertical, so Greg was on the table with nothing holding him in place but his bonds.

It was the first time that Sara saw the full extent of Greg's injuries and her heart sank to think that he went through all that when she was trying to block out his screams. On his forearms and legs, particularly his finger tips and the pads of his feet, were a series of shallow cuts. His chest was covered in burns from an open flame. His bullet wound was exposed and looked infected. Blood dripped from his nose, which looked very broken. His feet were raw and red, and his hands, oh God, his hands… both of them had third degree chemical burns from the lye. Sara had definitely seen worse bodies in her line of work, but they were generally dead, and they weren't generally someone she knew and cared about. She couldn't take her eyes away.

"Oh Greg…" she said. "What did he do to you?"

But Sara had little time to think about what Woodward had done to Greg as she was pushed up against the wall. Her hands were pinned above her head by Woodward. Something inside her told her it was coming, but she didn't want to admit it. She tried to focus on Greg, but that was no help at all. It wasn't just the blood and the broken nose, but the mixed expression of horror, regret and defeat is what finally defeated her. All of a sudden, she felt numb all over. She stopped struggling as Woodward grabbed her collar and tore it down over her shoulder, ravishing her neck like a wild boar, his hands _everywhere_. She began to cry and she wouldn't stop. Greg was screaming. She tried to block out all of the sound. She tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Eventually, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she was almost successful. But not as successful as she'd hoped. She still felt the pain. She still smelled his stench and it made her want to throw up everything inside of her. Everything was so loud, no one heard the phone at first. But in one of the moments when her self-imposed numbness failed her, she felt it vibrate against her thigh.

"The phone," she sobbed, hoping she was intelligible through her panicking tears. "Woodward, answer the fucking _phone_."

He heard her and paused in his attack. He looked down at his pocket then up at Sara. He snarled at her like a dog before looking over his shoulder at Greg, who had stopped screaming when Woodward had stopped his assault.

Everyone was breathing hard. Woodward tossed Sara to the ground, no longer human at all but all animal in her eyes as she buckled her belt and tried to hold her shirt together.

"Hello?" he panted into the phone.

* * *

"Woodward, you mother fucker," Nick yelled into the phone, sitting in the passenger seat next to Grissom in the car. "I never told Grissom _shit_ about you." 

"Don't lie to me, Nick," Woodward said. He was breathing hard. Nick didn't want to know why. "He accused me of blackmailing you."

"_Nick!_" Sara's hysterical voice came through loud and clear on the phone.

"Holy—is that Sara?" Nick asked. "What the hell have you done to her to make her sound like that?"

"Shut up, bitch!" Woodward shouted, sounding a little hysterical himself.

"_A warehouse by the copper factory!_"

"I _said_ shut the fuck up, bitch!" Woodward's shouts were in falsetto now.

"It doesn't matter, Woodward," said Nick. "Tell Sara thanks, but we figured that out when we found out that the copper in the soil of the car was processed copper, indicative of the copper factory, not the mines. All that evidence you're so good at picking and choosing to leave behind? Not so smart in this case. We're on our way there as we speak."

For a moment, Woodward didn't answer. Nick had to check the phone to make sure he didn't hang up. But when he did speak again, his voice was no longer hysterical, but deathly calm. "You just made a terrible mistake, Nick." And with that, he hung up.

"What did he say?" Warrick asked from the back seat.

Nick was looking at Grissom, whose eyes were on the road, wearing an expression as if he was just driving down a country road on a Sunday afternoon. "Grissom," he said. "You might want to step on it."

* * *

Woodward evenly hung up Greg's cell phone and put it on one of the plenty of metal trays. He looked at Greg, strapped to the table, then at Sara, crawling away from him on the floor clutching her shirt. His eerie silence was like the calm before a hurricane. Someone had to break it. 

"What will it take," Greg panted, the lisp from his broken nose still there, his voice hoarse and absolutely out of all energy, "to get you to leave us alode?"

Woodward didn't move anything but his head as it spun around on his shoulders in a scene reminiscent of _the Exorcist._ But Greg was too tired and in too much pain to be scared. Not anymore. Besides, other than the split-second image of the demon face spliced into the middle of the film, nothing about _the Exorcist_ scared Greg.

"You're death." Woodward's response was concise and monotonous.

"OK." Greg was equally concise and monotonous.

Sara looked from one crazy person to the next in bafflement. "Greg…" she panted. "What are you doing?"

"I have wod condition," Greg said, ignoring Sara.

"Let me guess," said Woodward. He pointed at Sara. "It has to do with her."

"This is bullshit," Sara said, slowly getting to her feet. "Greg, Nick and the others will be here any minute. Stop being so melodramatic."

Woodward turned to Sara. "Don't worry. I'm going to kill you both anyway. Greg's just making it easier on himself." He walked towards Sara, who backed away from him until she reached a wall.

"Leave her alode." Out of all of Greg's words, these had the most energy behind them. "Please, just don't touch her."

As if to torture Greg as much as Sara, Woodward defiantly ran the back of his hand up Sara's side. "You really are beautiful, Miss Sidle," he whispered in her ear. "Just like my first girlfriend."

Sara closed her eyes. No tears came. She had none to shed. Greg was right. They'd both be dead before she saw Grissom again. There were so many times when they stood on the edge of almost-saying-something, but never quite jumped over the cliff. Now, her eyes closed tight as the gun pressed into her gut, it wasn't her life that flashed before her eyes. It was Gil Grissom and all the woulda-coulda-shouldas.

There was the sound of spitting. Suddenly, the gun wasn't against her stomach. She opened her eyes to see Greg glaring at Woodward with one last spark of defiance in his eyes.

"Sara," Greg said. "_Run!_"

And she did, as fast as she could. She made for the door and pulled it open, forgetting all about the gun powder. There was a bang and she felt something sting her like a bee. Half of her fell down at the door but the other half kept running in mad delirium.

It was then that things stopped making sense. She took off out of the building and ran to her jeep. Everything was spinning. The keys were still in the ignition. She started the car. Everything was upside down. But instead of driving away, she aimed it at the warehouse wall. With all the indignation reaching a boiling point inside her, she narrowed her eyes at the warehouse and hit the gas as hard as she could, her car slamming into the warehouse wall making a loud clatter. It was all so surreal. She reversed and did it again and again and again. She didn't even stop when she heard the sound of sirens. She heard someone calling her name as if from very far away, but she still didn't stop. She was so angry, her eyes were bloodshot and tired, and _Greg_, she couldn't believe it, she couldn't believe any of it, was Greg even still alive…?

"_Sara!_"

The voice was familiarly alien to her, like something out of a half-forgotten memory that happened a lifetime ago.

"_Sara!_"

She stopped at the apex of her reverse and someone banged loudly on her window. It echoed louder than it probably should have. She screamed furiously and hit the gas again, ramming into the side of the building until finally she broke through. She kept driving. She saw Woodward right in her path aiming a gun at her through the windshield. Like a woman gone mad she kept driving. There was a bang followed by a loud thump, like going over an unexpected speed bump. Sara hit the breaks as hard as she could and reversed again and heard that satisfying bump. She hit the gas. She reversed. She hit the gas. Then, her world began to grow very fuzzy. She lost all of her strength.

She suddenly became aware of the liquid cold she felt growing around her middle. She was on her stomach and spat out dirt from her mouth as she rolled over onto her back. She looked down at the growing pool of crimson and realized that she wasn't in her car at all, but she had been lying face down over the gunpowder between the warehouse and outside. She had never made it out. She had never run over Woodward. It was just a pleasant nightmare. But she was so numb, and so tired she didn't care. She was vaguely aware of a warm fuzzy figure standing over her and lifting her head up, stroking her hair. The strange someone scooped her up in their arms. There were sirens. There was screaming. Greg. Where was Greg? Was he dead? Was he safe?

When things had happened so fast, everything seemed to be happening so slow now. The cold that began at her stomach stretched out spider-web tendrils, slowly consuming her. She was exhausted. She couldn't breathe.

"_Sara…_"

That voice again. That sweet refreshing voice, like lemonade on a hot day, it sang to her and it said _Don't Give Up._

"Greg…" she murmured as whoever was carrying her laid her on something soft and warm.

"_Sara…_"

That voice filled her with something she couldn't place. The flutter of a humming bird's wings. Butterflies riding roller coasters in her stomach.

Her stomach…

She felt hot and cold all at once. She couldn't breathe. Her breath was trapped in her chest, between inhale and exhale as a cold grip of agony seized her stomach and tied it in knots. The numbness in her stomach disappeared. Everything she had left to feel gathered at the epicenter of her explosive pain.

"_Sara, I'm so sorry…_"

_Oh Grissom, _Sara thought to herself with a wistful smile, _you never had anything in the world to be sorry about._

It was with this thought that she gave into the butterflies and roller coasters and fell into the open arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

Nick was out of the car before Grissom had even come to a halt. The first thing they saw was Sara, laying face down on the ground. Nick felt as though someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head just for the hell of it. Grissom ran over to her and Nick saw her roll over. Relief wrapped around him like a warm towel. The ambulance had just pulled up. Grissom and the paramedics would take care of her. Reassured that Sara was alive, Nick ran past the two of them and into the warehouse with Catherine and Warrick close behind. 

Woodward stood in front of Greg who was strapped to some sort of vertical metal table. Greg was shirtless and definitely worse for wear but he was alive. Unfortunately, he also had the barrel of a gun pressed under his bloody chin, forcing his head up. There was the sound of about a dozen other guns cocking before the shock of Greg's state wore off on Nick and he raised his own.

"I'm not afraid to die!" Woodward yelled hysterically. "And Greg here isn't either!"

"Sir put the gun down!" yelled Brass, one of the many cops surrounding Greg and Woodward. "You have half of the Las Vegas Police Force with their guns pointed at you, and I can assure you that after what you've done to us, they are very, _very_ pissed off."

"You don't just got a bunch of guns pointed at _me_," Woodward said. "But also at Greg here. What are the odds of a stray bullet striking him down too? Like I said, go ahead and _shoot_!"

"Put the gun _down_!" Brass shouted.

Woodward's crazy eyes finally focused on Nick. "Nick. Before I do this, I just wanted to tell you this is all your fault."

"Oh for _Christ's sake_!" The exclamation had come from Greg's mouth and even at gunpoint he still found a way to roll his eyes. His words were slurred, probably because of his injured nose. "Sara was right, Woodward. Why the hell do you keep blaming everything on Nick? Are you too _pathetic_ to take responsibility for your own actions?"

Woodward wasn't falling for it. He didn't even glance at Greg. But to hear Greg say anything at all, regardless of how scratchy and tired his voice was, was such a relief to Nick that it prompted him to speak.

"Woodward, what do you really want, eh?" Nick asked. "Do you want to kill me?"

"I wanted you to _hurt_!" Woodward shouted back. "I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me."

"I didn't do _anything_ to you," Nick snapped.

"Did you know we went to the same junior high?" Woodward cried.

"We did?" Nick said, caught off guard.

"And the same high school, too," said Woodward. "But back in junior high there was this guy who always kicked my ass every time I showed up to class. But then you came along, cool Nick Stokes on the baseball team and you shoved him up against the locker and told him to leave me the hell alone."

"Lyle Sanders…" Nick muttered. "He beat up dozens of kids."

One of the officers tried to move in behind Woodward while he was distracted. Woodward didn't even do anything but he did take out his knife and held it in the cop's general direction and the officer stopped. "You knelt down next to me," Woodward continued, "and you talked to me, _me_, good-for-nothing Ryan Woodward, curled up in the fetal position, and you put your hand on my arm and told me everything would be OK."

"And that's a reason to ruin my life and the lives of my friends," Nick spat, snidely.

"On the contrary," said Woodward. "It was that one event that made me worship you all throughout the rest of my adolescent life. You went to a high school two hours away from my house, but I convinced my mom to let me go just so I could be like you. But you never gave me a second glance. Not until college. Then I was your best friend."

"You were a buddy, Ryan," said Nick. "We chilled sometimes."

"No, you were my _best friend_, Nick and you treated me like _shit._ You never invited me to any of the cool parties, you teased me in front of your friends—"

"We joked around," Nick interrupted.

"You took my girl, too," said Woodward. "Dana was _my_ girl."

"Is that why you raped and killed her?" Nick asked.

"You killed my spirit, Nick," Woodward said. "You made me fail at everything I ever tried to do. _You ruined my life!_" Woodward's scream echoed throughout the warehouse. He shook his head, his voice now sinisterly quiet. "And I won't rest until I ruin yours. Remember what I threatened to do to your sweet Sara? And your little Greg? Are you really so sure right now that I didn't?"

Woodward turned towards Greg. The shot nearly destroyed all of their eardrums. Greg relaxed in his bonds and closed his eyes, falling unconscious. Woodward dropped his gun and looked down. Catherine stared at Nick, who held his gun staunchly in his hands. Nick was breathing hard and steady, the smoke rising out of the barrel of his gun.

The police swarmed in as Woodward's body wavered and then fell to the floor, his hands gripping at his stomach in disbelief.

While Brass and Warrick gingerly took Greg's unconscious form from off the table, Catherine approached Nick who was still holding the gun aimed at the place where Woodward had stood. She put a hand on his upper arm and gently pushed it down. Nick turned to look at her with dark eyes and a hardened expression.

"I told him," Nick said. "I told him I would kill him if he ever talked about them that way again."

Catherine smiled at him and rubbed his arm. "Come on," she said. "Let's go." 


	7. Fever

_**An Apology:**_ I want to apologize in advance for the completely uncalled for abundance of medical drama in this chapter. A few years ago, I was really into ER (back when there was still a sizable number of the original cast, at least). Anyways, writing this was kind of a throwback to those days, and I just couldn't resist putting them through one last leg of torture. Also keep in mind that their injuries were intense, and everything that happens to them are actual complications that can happen with these types of injuries.

There will be a brief epilogue after this chapter (taking place two months later), and then it will be finished. After that, I'll be working on a new story which is currently tentatively titled "Bloody Sunday" which contains more action/adventure plus a twist of mystery for Greg (for some reason I can't get enough of Greg angst) with supporting roles given to the rest of our favorite CSIs. Very possibly a Sandle. Summary: "Greg thought it was a bad day when he woke up in the middle of the desert covered in blood. But he knew for sure when he called work and found out he's been missing for three days straight."

And I want to apologize for that SHAMELESS self-promotion, and this next one. If you like my writing, visit Fiction Press .Com (under the name ancientsands) and check out my full length play. I really am shameless when it comes to plugs. The best thing about it though is you can completely ignore them.

That said, enjoy this very long chapter (which I also apologize for its length)

* * *

Everything was white. When she opened her eyes, it was all so sharp and bright she just wanted to close them again. There was a moment when she just floated there, staring up at the florescent strip as it buzzed loudly in her ears. She didn't know where she was. She forgot what she was supposed to be doing. Her first thought was that she was late for work. She tried to turn over and look at the alarm clock but she couldn't move. But she had to get to work. What time was it? What day was it? 

She became aware of the warmth in her right hand and the comforting pressure. Someone had interlaced their fingers with hers. She blinked and looked down at Grissom, who raised his head up off of the arm of his chair as he felt her fingers squeeze him back.

It was slow, and ever so subtle, but a small smile began at his lips and ended up in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded as tired as she felt. "Hey, sweetie."

With his words, the events of the day came flooding back to her and Sara really wished they hadn't. She closed her eyes and stretched her neck. "What time is it?"

" Nine o'clock."

"Grissom, didn't your shift start at—"

"In the morning," Grissom added. He put his other hand over hers, sandwiching it between his grip. She welcomed its warmth. "My shift, if I'd gone to work today, would be over by now."

"You never miss work unless you're deathly sick enough to be sent against your will to the hospital," Sara said with a playful smile.

"Or someone I love is," Grissom said.

Sara opened her mouth to reply when the full impact of Grissom's words snapped it shut again. She stared at him with a mixture of shock and respect as an insane warmth bubbling up inside of her. "Grissom…"

"Sara," Grissom interrupted, his hand moving up to stroke her hair. "I know I'm not perfect. I know I drive you crazy. And when I'm around you, you make me feel completely at a loss for anything to do or say… But I realized something yesterday. When Brass called me and told me that you and Greg were missing, I felt utterly lost without you. And… it wasn't like when Nick was kidnapped, when that happened I was just… furious and focused. I was determined, I was driven… But Sara, the first thing I did when I heard you were gone was I tried to work your case and I couldn't. I just couldn't think about it at all. I froze up. That has _never_ happened to me before. Not even with Nick."

Sara yawned. "Well, you were missing two of us this time…"

"It wasn't that," Grissom said sharply. "I was worried sick about Greg. But I couldn't even think about you without wanting to hurt something."

Sara reached out and caressed Grissom's unshaven cheek. "Oh Grissom…" she said, her eyelids growing almost too heavy to fight, "you are absolutely perfect."

With a weary smile, she closed her eyes and her hand fell away from Grissom's face. Her deep, steady breaths were the sweetest sounds Grissom had ever heard. He took her fallen hand and placed it next to her on the bed. He stood up and kissed her forehead as he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

"Sweet dreams."

He crossed the hall into Greg's room, where he saw Nick snoring in the chair. He chuckled a little at the sight, which made Greg turn his head. Grissom was surprised that he was awake. Greg grinned at him.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I thought it was kinda funny too."

"I never thought I'd say this, Greg," said Grissom, pulling up a chair. "But it's good to see that stupid smile again."

"Thank you, Grissom," Greg said, perking up.

"You sound wide awake," Grissom said. "Considering what you went through…"

The smile quickly faded from Greg's face and Grissom regretted having said anything at all. He was the king at saying the wrong thing. "Greg, I'm—"

"When I was laying on that table," Greg interrupted, staring at a spot on the wall with a furrowed brow, "and he was… I don't know… with the lighter, or the water or the knife or the lye… I pretended I was at the dentist's. I kept telling myself, 'OK, it hurts now, but at the end of it, I'll have the best damn teeth you've ever seen.' I know, it doesn't make sense, it didn't even make sense at the time, at least not at first… I just had to grin and bear it. But after a while, I just broke. I lost all perspective. I was wondering what happens to people when they go insane. I saw myself through his eyes… I can't explain it."

Grissom felt he should say something, but he didn't know what it was. So he decided he would just stay quiet.

But Greg didn't need him to say anything. "Then, I lost my mind completely. I bit off his ear. He punched me in the nose. I set him off. He went after Sara. And then, all of a sudden, I was back, I was in my mind again and I forgot all about the pain and all I could think about was what that bastard was going to do to her, and because of me. Because I pissed him off." He turned to look at Grissom, his eyes desperate. "Grissom, what happened to her, I am so sorry I couldn't stop it. I'm so sorry that I couldn't protect her. You have to understand that. Watching him hurt her like that, the way he…" All of a sudden, Greg began to choke up. "I'm just so tired, and so sick of everything, and I promised her, I _promised_ her that he would never…" He sniffed and swallowed as he looked up at the ceiling. Grissom saw the tears slide out of his eyes. He closed them and shook his head. "It's just not fair." He laughed and looked back at Grissom. He gestured at his face. "I'm sorry about all of this. I know you're no good with emotions."

Grissom smiled and closed his eyes. "Greg, you didn't do anything wrong. In fact, you did pretty well under the circumstances."

Greg looked down at his sheets and shrugged in an uncharacteristic show of humility. "I did OK," he said. "Doing well would have been keeping my promise."

Grissom's eyes also wandered to other points in the room until he fell on Nick. It was at that point that he realized the snoring had stopped, and it had stopped a long time ago. "It's oddly quiet in here, Greg, don't you think?"

Greg gave him a funny look. "How do you mean?"

Grissom nodded at Nick's silent form and Greg looked his way. Greg looked back to Grissom and grinned again. It was a strange sight to see, the grin with the tear steaks down his cheeks still.

"Hey Grissom," Greg said. "If Warrick and Nick got in a fight, who would you put money on?"

"Oh Warrick," Grissom said. "Definitely, I mean Nick has really let himself go."

"A guy puts on a few pounds and suddenly he's no competition for his buddy in a fight?" Nick's mouth moved, but his eyes remained closed. He opened them and gave Greg and Grissom a lopsided grin. "So what gave me away?"

"You snore," Greg and Grissom said together.

"It's impolite to eavesdrop," Greg pointed out.

"Sorry, Greggo," Nick replied. "But you and Grissom were having a moment and I didn't want to interrupt that." He winked.

"You shot him," Greg said, flatly.

"I'm sorry?" said Nick.

"You shot him," Greg repeated. "You shot Woodward. I wanted to do that."

"I think we _all_ wanted to do that," Grissom pointed out. "Frankly, I kinda wanted to run him over with my car."

"Yeah…" said Greg, sounding far away. "I wanted to submerge his body in lye."

"Yeah," Nick said. "What can I say? I promised him I'd shoot him if I got the chance, and I did."

No one spoke for a long time as the three friends sat there with their own silent thoughts. On multiple occasions, all three men thought of voicing their thoughts, but they all ended up biting their tongue in the end. They were content to sit in the comfortable silence of camaraderie. They didn't have to speak. They were just glad to be together.

"Hey," Nick said at last. "You got a TV, Greg. Wanna watch the game?"

Greg was about to enthusiastically reply when the breath caught in his throat. He found himself suddenly unable to breathe or move. Nick's voice sounded like an echo in the fog of a murky swamp.

"_Greg!_"

Why was he saying his name like that? Like his was falling off a cliff? Greg began to see spots. Someone was shaking his shoulders. He faintly heard Grissom screaming for a doctor and the sound of a shrill droning whine.

Greg's head felt very heavy. Other people were running into the room.

"_Come on, Greggo, don't do this to me kid._"

But Greg wasn't sure what he was doing that would make Nick's voice sound like that.

And then, the hospital dissolved around him and he wasn't laying in a hospital bed but on that damn metal table. Everything was sharp and gray and painful. He hurt everywhere. His hands and feet were screaming. There were open wounds on his chest. His gunshot wound hurt most of all. It twisted and ravaged his shoulder as though it were a live animal, destroying him from the inside out. He felt the bullet slipping deeper into the wound…

Woodward's face hovered over him as he mashed the glass in his mortar. He poured the glass over Greg's chest as though they were sprinkles on an ice cream sundae and pressed down. The tears streaked down Greg's face.

"You aren't out of the woods yet," said Woodward. "All that talk about being home safe, everyone was OK, and your sweet Sara was safe and sound. It cracked me up."

_Sara!!!_

"Sara…" He sobbed the name, too weak to voice any of his horrible thoughts. Where was she?

Woodward was laughing hysterically. Greg heard crying and turned his head enough to see Sara, crying uncontrollably in the corner of her cell. Her clothes were in shreds and she was bruised all over. She was madly trying to cover herself up with the shreds of clothing left. She had a black eye and bite marks all over her neck. They bled freely like the marks a vampire leaves behind.

A deep-seated rage swelled in his belly and bled through his wounds as he grit his teeth and screamed louder than he'd ever screamed before.

* * *

Catherine banged the machine after it ate her money. 

"Need coffee _that_ badly?"

She closed her eyes as she turned to meet Warrick. "I hate these machines, they always—" she cut herself off when she noticed Warrick held two Styrofoam cups filled with a warm brown liquid. He offered her one and she took it gratefully. "You're a saint."

"Nah," said Warrick. "They just make these better in the cafeteria. I already drank mine, this is for Nick."

"I should get some for Grissom…" Catherine thought aloud.

"No," Warrick said. "I asked, he said he doesn't need any."

Catherine sighed as she looked at the white, bland surroundings. "How did we get here? I mean, how did we even let it get this far?"

Warrick took Catherine's hand. "They're safe," he whispered. "Wasn't that our goal?"

"Sure," said Catherine. "They're safe now. But look at the shape they're in…"

"That's to be expected," Warrick said quickly. "They endured the wrath of a psychopath. You're bound to come out looking a little scratched up."

"Sara's shirt was torn," Catherine said. "Her sleeve was destroyed on one side."

"And Greg's shirt was ripped to shreds," Warrick countered, knowing what she was implying and refusing to even consider it.

"Her bruises…" Catherine said. "They're not as gory as Greg's, but they were well-placed."

Warrick sighed. "Grissom wants to wait for Sara's statement before we jump to conclusions. We have no idea what happened in there, Catherine, and the less we speculate, the less we worry."

"You're right," Catherine said. "I'm sorry. It just pisses me off a little, not knowing."

"You and me both," Warrick said with a sympathetic smile.

"You know…" Catherine said, a faraway look in her eyes, "I remember this one time, it was one of Greg's first times out in the field… He tagged along with Sara and me. A scuffle in the red light district had ended up killing three people. We divided and conquered, and Sara decided to give Greg the hooker while we processed the two men who were killed. Greg started talking about what a shame it was for pretty women like that to have to sell themselves for cash. He was convinced this hooker could have gotten a better job somewhere else. Sara and I ignored him, you know, but I saw a smile tugging at Sara's face. I wasn't sure why at the time, but the more he talked about how he actually respected the hooker, the more she tried to hold in her laughter. You should have heard the way Greg yelped when he realized that the hooker had a few extra parts."

"You're joking," Warrick said, chuckling.

"I think Sara knew from the start," Catherine said, "and she was just waiting for Greg to figure it out."

"That sounds like Sara alright," Warrick said, still laughing. "God, what a pair."

"Really!" Catherine said, quite amused herself. As their laughter died down, neither one spoke at first. When Catherine did break the quiet, her voice was very soft. "I asked if Greg wanted to talk about what happened. He told me about all the things we could already figure from his injuries, and very matter-of-factly, like he was telling me what happened to a corpse he'd just processed. He was shot, he was tortured, hands burned in lye, feet frozen in ice water… And then, he began to talk about Sara and he just stopped mid-sentence. He just froze, his mouth half-open as he stared at me. And then, all of a sudden he completely changed the subject, started talking about sports and then said he was really tired."

Warrick wrapped his arms around Catherine and she rested her head against his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said in his embrace. "I know you told me not to speculate."

"Sh," Warrick said. "Sometimes your mind can't help wandering."

"Yeah…" She paused. "Warrick, I've been thinking a lot. Bad things happen more often than we like to admit, and we think it'll never happen to us, but hell, look at Greg and Sara, look at Nick, I mean… if I was ever in a situation like that, there would be so many things that I'd regret not doing." She pulled away from him just enough so their eyes were inches apart. "Warrick, I know everything, but I just need to tell you…"

All of a sudden, Warrick's phone began to ring. They broke apart and he laughed, only sounding minimally awkward as he saw the name. "It's Grissom," he said. "Must have changed his mind about the coffee. Hello?"

Catherine could hear Grissom's voice coming through the receiver. "Warrick? I'll have that coffee after all. And could you make it an Irish?"

Warrick frowned. "What happened?"

"Just… get up here now."

* * *

Catherine and Warrick jogged down the hall to see Nick and Grissom standing outside the door to Greg's room. 

"What's going on?" Catherine asked.

"Greg," Nick said simply, before Grissom could reply. Nick was pale and his eyes seemed darker somehow in contrast. Warrick handed Nick and Grissom their coffee. Grissom tried to sip his slowly.

"Does Sara know?" Catherine asked.

"She's sleeping," Grissom said, looking into her room. "I don't want to wake her up and worry her. She's been through enough already."

Greg's parents came running down the hall. Greg's mother looked a little more than frazzled, her frizzy hair flying everywhere, while his gaunt father followed close behind. "What's happening?" asked Mrs. Sanders. "What's wrong with my son?"

"We're not sure," Grissom replied. "All I heard them say was there was complications with Greg's bullet wound."

"Is it his heart?" Mrs. Sanders asked, clutching at her own. "Our family has a history of weak hearts."

"Mrs. Sanders, I don't know what to say…" Grissom began.

"Lillian, calm down," Mr. Sanders said soothingly to his wife as he put his arm around her. "These people don't know any more than we do."

"Might I say, ma'am," Nick put in, "that it's been my experience that Greg has a very strong heart indeed."

Mrs. Sanders smiled a strong smile through her tears at him. "Thank you," she said.

The doctors began wheeling Greg out of the room on a gurney. At the sight of him, Mrs. Sanders fainted into Mr. Sanders arms. Nick and Mr. Sanders exchanged looks.

"Go check on my boy," Mr. Sanders said. "I'll stay here with Lillian."

Nick nodded and ran along side the gurney. "Where are you taking him, what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we can only disclose that to immediate family," said a doctor.

"I'm his brother," Nick lied, a little too easily. "Please."

The doctor glanced at him fleetingly, as though surprised, but he didn't press the matter. "When Greg was in surgery," he explained, "they couldn't remove the bullet in his shoulder because it would have required more extensive surgery into the muscle tissue. At the time, we thought the bullet was stagnant, but it's moved closer towards the heart."

"Will he be alright?" Nick asked.

"If we get him up there fast," the doctor said, "his chances are better."

* * *

"This is all wrong…" Greg muttered. "You're dead…" 

"Am I dead?" Woodward asked. "Or are you?"

There was a flash as bright as a camera in Greg's eyes and the table was immediately vertical and facing the wall. Greg couldn't find the energy to scream as he watched what Woodward had done to Sara repeat over and over again before his eyes. He felt so tired. It all seemed so surreal.

There was a flash again and Greg was horizontal once more as Woodward took a knife and dug it deep into his left shoulder in his bullet wound. Greg screamed.

"You think _that_ hurts," Woodward hissed in his ear. "But just wait for _this_."

Woodward slowly pulled out his gun and aimed at Sara in the corner. There was a bang and then another flash.

Greg was kneeling in front of Sara. "Sh," he said, "It's all OK. You're safe now."

Her words were completely unintelligible as continued to sob, madly trying to do any menial task to distract herself. She was completely shattered and nothing Greg could say would fix her.

"Please," he begged her. "Please, Sara, just stop crying. I'm here. It's all OK."

But all she could do was cry.

There was the bang again. Greg felt the bullet strip through him and hit Sara square between the eyes. They stared up at him, glazed over, and she looked vaguely like a porcelain doll, her gaze forever frozen in an expression of horror.

There was a final flash and Greg was blinded by it. But he heard the voices.

"_Come on, Greg. Can you hear me?_"

Greg blinked. Everything was moving very fast. He looked up at the doctor who was speaking to him. "Wha…?"

"Greggo." Greg blinked again and saw Nick was running alongside the gurney.

"We're taking you into surgery," said the doctor. "Do you understand?"

Greg nodded. "Nick?"

"I'm here, Greg," Nick said.

"Sir, we're going up into surgery now, you'll have to stay here," said the doctor as they entered the elevator.

Greg was scared. "Nick?" he said again, this time more worried.

"He'll be there when you get out of surgery," the doctor said to him.

Greg was too tired to worry and he closed his eyes.

* * *

Nick jogged back down the hall to see the same crowd he left assembled outside of Sara's room. Grissom was being pushed outside by a nurse. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside," said a nurse.

"No!" Grissom said, suddenly understanding the irritation of people at the crime scenes of loved ones. "I'm from the Crime Lab, I can…" But that excuse couldn't help him here and he knew it even as he said it.

"I'm sorry sir," said the nurse. "But please, just wait outside." She pushed him out the door and turned to go back in, but Grissom caught her shoulder.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asked her. "What happened?"

"Please just wait outside," said the nurse, before closing the door. Grissom put his hands on the door frame and banged his head on the door.

"What's going on?" Grissom turned around to see Nick, his eyes desperate.

For once, Grissom didn't have an answer. "I don't know."

"Something just… happened," Warrick said, stunned.

"But—she was fine," Nick said. "She was fine a minute ago, wasn't she?"

"She woke up…" Grissom said, confused. "She talked to me. She asked me the time, why I wasn't at work… We had a conversation."

Catherine wrapped her arms around Grissom, but he couldn't bring himself to return the hug. He just stood there, completely lost all over again.

"First Greg…" Grissom muttered. "Now Sara..."

"No," said Nick, resolutely. "We're not losing either one of them."

* * *

When Greg opened his eyes again, he was in a sparkling white hospital room. Sara was sitting by his bed. 

"Hey, hot shot," she said softly.

"Sara…" Greg said. "Are you OK?"

"At this moment, I'm better than you are," she said. "I'm not in surgery."

"I've been seeing things…" Greg said. "Terrible things. I'm not sure what actually happened and what's part of my dreams."

"Sh," Sara whispered. "It's all OK. You're safe now."

Greg nodded to the group outside the hall. "What about them?"

Sara looked over her shoulder at them. "They'll do alright."

"I'm tired, Sara."

"So am I."

"So what are we gonna do?"

Sara was quiet. "Grissom said don't give up."

"So…" Greg said. "Whose dream is this? Yours or mine?"

"I'm not sure," said Sara with a wry grin. "Does it really matter?"

"I guess not," Greg said.

"I won't give up if you don't," Sara said.

"I just wanted to be sure you were safe," said Greg. "And now, I feel so tired."

Sara placed her hand on his. "Come on," she said. "I'm not letting you go so easily."

"Sara," said Greg, not looking down. "I can't feel you."

"I'm right here, Greg," Sara said.

"No," Greg insisted, shaking his head. He pulled his hand away and waved it at her. "I mean I can't _feel_ you." He looked at his hands sadly, which were heavily bandaged up to his forearm to let the burns heal. "I'm pretty much crippled thanks to that bastard."

"But not permanently," Sara said. "I mean, sure, you can't walk, and your hands are busted up, and you can't really move your left arm, but all that will heal."

"What are you really doing here?" Greg asked. He noticed her shirt was stained a dark crimson. "You don't look too good yourself."

"I'll be fine," Sara said. "You spend so much time worrying about me, you stop thinking about yourself."

"Thinking about you is the only thing that kept me alive," Greg said. "So long as I was focused on making sure you were safe, I could block out the pain."

"You're sweet," said Sara. "All I could think about was how you shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"I love you." The words tumbled out of his mouth like uncontrollable drool, but somehow he didn't care.

"It's a shame you'll never have the guts to say that to my face," Sara replied.

"Ah," said Greg. "So this is my dream after all."

"Don't be too sure of that, hot shot," Sara said with a wink.

"There. You never call me that," Greg said.

Sara stood and Greg saw her waist. The crimson was dripping down her jeans as she walked closer to Greg and stroked his hair. She slowly morphed into his mother, who kneeled down next to him on the bed.

"Please come back, baby," she said, her eyes bright with tears. "Momma misses you."

"Hey, Mom," said Greg. "It's good to see you."

"You should listen to your mother," came a voice from the other side of the bed and Greg looked up to see his beaming father. "You should have told us you were promoted."

"You know how Mom gets," Greg said, smiling at his mother. "I get a paper cut and she wants to send me to the emergency room like I'm anemic."

His mother pouted. "Well, human beings _are_ fragile, you know, Greg, your Grandpa Olaf narrowly escaped death himself in the war."

"But he _survived_," Greg said. "And so did I."

"So far," said his father.

"Greg, sweetie…" his mother came in, stroking his hair compulsively. "If you leave me, I won't know what I will do. I'll be a wreck."

"You're already a wreck, Mom," Greg said with a light laugh. "You've been a wreck ever since I was born."

"It's only because you drive her crazy," said his father with a smile. "Son, I'm proud of you. I hope you know that." He looked as though he wanted to pat him on the shoulder, or shake his hand, but Greg's injuries made that impossible. So instead, he kept his arms neatly folded.

"I know that, Dad," Greg said.

The images disappeared, but his mother's words echoed in the room. "_We'll keep you safe, Gregory._"

And Greg was left alone. The scene faded in and out. He wasn't so sure of what was going on.

The sight of Sara flashed before his eyes. "It's time to wake up now, hot shot."

* * *

They all waited in the hall between Greg and Sara's room, not sure of what to do. Greg had gone to surgery, but no one was telling them what was wrong with Sara. Soon enough, a nurse came out to speak with them. 

"Are you Miss Sidle's family?" she asked.

"Yes," Grissom said, quickly.

"Alright," said the nurse. She was smiling. "Well, we're sorry if we caused you worry, but she threw a clot and we had no time to waste. It was just a little scare is all. She's stabilized now, though, and she told me to tell someone named Grissom that she's sorry she's not perfect either." The nurse smiled at Grissom, as though she could tell it was him. "Would you like to see her now?"

"Hell yes," Warrick said, and the four CSIs filed into the room. Nick was last and he hesitated as he noticed that the Sanders remained, shaken and wan standing in the hallway. He stood there awkwardly a moment as they looked at them before approaching them.

"Mrs. Sanders," he said. "I meant what I said about you're son. He's survived one hell of a lot already. It's not in his nature to give up now."

"It's good to see that Greg has such noble colleagues," Mr. Sanders said. "I'll be he's learned a lot from you."

"It's like Grissom said," Nick said, turning towards the door. "He's our family too."

With a smile from Mrs. Sanders, Nick entered the room. Sara tried to look over at him and a grin lit up Nick's face. It was all he could do to not run over there and scoop her up in his arms, he was so happy to see her awake again. He wanted to say so many things, but she seemed to say them all in two simple words.

"Hey, Nick." She then addressed them all collectively, her eyes filled with concern. "How's Greg? Is he OK?"

She tried to sit up and winced. Grissom gently pushed her back down. "Greg is in surgery, sweetie," he said, his voice soft as though Sara were a delicate child.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "He'll be alright." It wasn't a question, but the others still didn't know how to respond.

"You're right," Nick said bravely.

"Nick," Sara said with a knowing smile. "Always have faith."

"Always," Nick echoed.

"We're all just glad that you're both safe," Warrick said.

Sara closed her eyes and tried to stretch out her neck again. "I think I have whiplash or something. My neck is killing me."

Her friends exchanged looks. Catherine licked her lips and took the chair by Sara's bed. "Honey, do you want to tell us what happened in the warehouse?"

Sara looked confused. "But I thought Greg would have told you everything by now…"

Catherine looked at the others before continuing. "Well, he did, but he wasn't so clear on what happened to you. We know he was tortured and we know you guys tried to escape a few times but…" She trailed off as she noticed Sara was staring at the far corner of the room. "If you want us to leave, we can," she said.

For a long time, Sara didn't speak, and Warrick even moved towards the door.

"Wait," Sara said, still staring at the wall. "I don't remember everything that happened. I tried to block out a lot of it. But I can tell you what didn't happen." She turned and looked Catherine in the eye. "He didn't rape me. I know it's his MO, and God knows he tried, and once he got really, _really_ close, but…" she trailed off again, and though she was still looking at Catherine, her eyes became very distant. She shook it off and smiled at all of them. "Well, one way or another, he always got distracted, whether it was Greg coming at him with a hacksaw or Nick calling him on the phone."

"What?" Nick said, surprised.

"And Grissom," Sara said. "You should have seen the look on his face when you called, it was priceless."

There was a knock at the door and it slowly opened. It was Greg's doctor.

"Mr. Sanders?"

The others looked at each other in confusion, before Nick jumped at some internal realization and stepped forward. "Yeah?"

"Your brother's out of surgery," the doctor said. "You all can see him now."

The doctor left and Sara cocked an eyebrow and gave Nick a lopsided grin. "Brother, huh?"

"They'd only tell me what was going on if I said I was family," Nick replied. "I lied, so sue me."

"Nah," said Sara. "I don't think you did."

"Are you feeling OK?" Grissom asked. "I bet we could get a wheel chair."

"Bah," said Sara, waving her hand dismissively. "I just spent the whole day with Greg I can see him later."

"We'll be back," said Warrick.

Sara shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."

Grissom lingered. "Are you sure you're alright?"

She smiled at him, but put her hand on her stomach under the sheets. "I feel fantastic."

Satisfied, he left and Sara exhaled a sigh of relief as she looked at the ceiling. As much as she was glad to see them all, she was glad to be left alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Greg opened his eyes and saw the faces of his friends and family staring back at him. "You see," he said to them, his voice hoarse, "this is what a guy needs to wake up to every morning." 

His mother made a sound as though she was stifling a sob. She looked as though she really wanted to hug him, but was afraid he would break. His father was holding onto her tightly. Nick, Grissom, Catherine and Warrick were all there. He really wanted to see Sara.

"How's Sara?"

"It's kind of cute, you know," Catherine said. "How one of the first things either of you say is an inquiry about the other."

"That's not an answer," Greg said.

"She's fine," Grissom replied. "Awake."

"Can I see her?" Greg asked.

"Oh sweetheart," said his mother. "The doctors said you shouldn't move right now."

Greg ignored his mother and looked at his friends. "Guys?"

"If that's what the doctors said, I'm not helping you break any rules," said Nick.

"You can see her after you're both feeling a little better," Warrick said.

"It's probably better that way," Greg said, feeling his eyes getting heavy. "I think they drugged me so I could sleep."

"Well then we better let you," Grissom said. "We should get some sleep ourselves."

"Yeah, you guys go home," Greg said, waving at them to leave.

Catherine seemed to flinch at the sight of his bandaged hand, but all she said was, "Get rest and get better."

As they left him in peace, Greg closed his eyes, and resolved to not open them again for a very long time. 


	8. Epilogue Two Months Later

_**Author's Note:**_ Thank you all, you've all been wonderful! Hope you enjoyed this as much as I have! This was my first CSI story, and I had so much fun with this, I expect to be doing more.

_**A Note On Music:**_ In my own opinion, Joni Mitchell is one of the most beautiful lyricists of her time. This epilogue was written to her song "_A Case of You_," Death Cab for Cutie's "_I Will Follow You Into the Dark,_" Jets to Brazil's "_Sweet Avenue_," and the Barenaked Ladies' "_Light Up My Room_." It may be because all these songas are rather romantic in their own way that one could tilt one's head sideways and see a little bit of romance in this chapter. I was aiming for a deep intimate feeling, which is definitely something that comes with romance, so read this as you will. I briefly considered having Sara listening to Joni Mitchell while she vacuumed, but then realized it would be hard to hear over ther noise. Still, Sara strikes me as a Joni Mitchell fan. Anyways, that was completely irrelevant. Enjoy the story!

* * *

"I remember that time you told me, you said 'Love is touching souls.' Surely, you touched mine because part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time."  
--Joni Mitchell, _A Case of You_

_Two Months Later…_

It was raining outside. It used to be that Sara would sit on her couch with a cup of tea and a good book and listen to the drops outside her window. But now, she had become a compulsive cleaner. The roar of the vacuum drowned out the sound of the rain, and the screams she still heard in her head.

She had gone back to work a month ago. She had insisted on it. She had wanted to go back after two weeks of recovery, but Grissom had wanted her to take another month off. They settled on a compromise of waiting for another two weeks, and even then Grissom resisted her every step of the way. He wouldn't send her on any intense cases, or ones that were far away. In a way, it pissed her off that he was treating her like a rookie, but every time they got in an argument about it, the look in his eyes always made her feel guilty.

She worked out her frustrations by cleaning, generally vacuuming or obsessively scrubbing her dishes to loud music. She didn't tell anyone, least of all Grissom, about the dreams she still had in which bits and pieces of the things she blocked out came back to her. Specifically, what happened in that mind-altering frenzy of Woodward's sexual assault. Her bruises had faded since then, but his stench was permanently scarred on her memory.

She didn't let anyone touch her anymore. And instead of growing closer to Grissom, she felt they were growing further apart. Their roles had reversed. While he tried harder to get close to her, she kept pushing him away. Occasionally she had considered talking to a psychiatrist, but every time she dismissed the idea. She could barely open up to people she knew, let alone a perfect stranger judging her every minute. So instead of dealing with it, she cleaned.

More than once, Sara dreamed that Woodward had succeeded in violating her. When she woke up, she still felt like he was inside of her, crawling around like some sort of viral centipede. She always showered and scrubbed her skin raw before the feeling finally went away and she could go back to sleep. Needless to say, these nightmares made her lose an hour or so of sleep every time they occurred, and what sleep she did have was never restful. It had begun to take its toll on her work. Grissom had noticed. When she went in a few hours ago for her shift, he'd asked her to take a few days off and get some sleep. She'd made a huge scene in the lab before she left, screaming and yelling at him. She felt a little sheepish about it now, but not enough to apologize. And now, instead of sleeping, she was vacuuming.

There was a knock at her door. Sara turned the vacuum off and walked over to answer it. She had the slightest limp left over from her bullet wound, but it was only noticeable if one was looking for it. Grissom looked for it everyday.

She had expected to find Grissom, probably trying to figure out what was going on with her. But instead, a nervous Greg smiled at her and held out a bouquet of sunflowers.

"I, uh, didn't think you'd like roses," he said. "Also, thought I'd brighten up this rainy day. Can I come in?" Sara nodded and stepped aside. Greg's left arm was still in a sling, but that was the only real sign of the terrible events that had happened, apart from a few scars on his face and his newly shaped nose. Greg looked around. "Wow, I've never been here before."

"Pretty dismal, I know," Sara said, closing the door. "Sorry for the mess."

Greg raised his eyebrows and tried not to say anything. He couldn't help it. "Sara, your mess is my mother's Garden of Eden," Greg said. "If my apartment ever looks as clean as this, please demand that the alien imposters return me to Earth immediately."

He looked over at her and smiled sadly. "He cut you pretty bad across the forehead, didn't he?" Greg said.

Sara's fingers flew to the scar on her head and she frowned at him, irritated. "Is there a reason you came over here or did you just feel like annoying me today?" Sara asked.

Greg looked at her, confused. He suddenly felt very awkward. "Oh. Yeah. I know, we haven't really talked since… it happened, but I saw your little spectacle at work today and it occurred to me that you haven't really talked to _anyone_ in a while." He gestured at an arm chair. "Can I sit down?"

Sara nodded, regretting the way she snapped at him. "Do you want a drink or something…?"

"Nah," said Greg, taking a seat. "But where do you want these flowers?"

"I'll take them," she said, and she did. She couldn't help but notice his hands, the bandages gone, but the scars remained.

He saw her staring. "Dead skin. Can't feel a thing. It'll go away and I'll be good as new again."

"I see you're out of the wheel chair, too," Sara said, putting the flowers in a vase. "Your feet are fine, then?"

He smiled at her. "See, Sara? I've been back at work and out of a wheel chair for two weeks and you haven't even noticed."

"I'm sorry," Sara said, somewhat bashful. "I haven't been myself lately." She sat down on the couch across from Greg

"Neither have I," Greg admitted. "I just hide it better than you do."

Sara didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything at all.

She didn't need to. Greg continued unprompted. "I still get nightmares. I can tell by the bags under your eyes that you do, too. Now, you don't have to say anything at all. I guess I just wanted to come here today to remind you that I was there too. Everything you went through, I went through with you."

"I know that, Greg," Sara replied.

"I know—I know you _know_ that, Sara, but I don't think you take advantage of that knowledge," Greg said. "You're not OK. _I'm_ not OK. We don't have to talk about it, frankly I don't really want to anymore than you do. What happened still scares the hell out of me and I sometimes wonder how we survived at all. I just wanted to come over here and maybe make you laugh a little, give you your flowers, and be on my way. Unless, that is, you need me…" Greg paused, hoping she would say something, but she didn't say a word. He sighed and rose to his feet. "Yeah, I know. I'll get out of your hair now."

He got up, inwardly sighing, and made his way to the door. His hand was on the doorknob before Sara said anything.

"When you have nightmares, Greg," she said, sounding very small, "what do you see?"

Greg didn't turn away from the door as the images flashed in his mind. "A lot of things," he replied. "You, mostly. I hear things, too. The hissing burning of my skin. Your sobs. Woodward taunting me."

"When I dream," Sara told him, "your screams are all I hear. His reek is all I smell. His hands are all I feel."

Greg slowly turned and leaned against the door as he looked over at the back of Sara's head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Sara replied. She closed her eyes. "Yes."

Greg walked over to her and sat down next to her on the couch. She looked up at him. "I was afraid of that," Greg said, with a scared smile. "I'm all ears."

Sara turned away from him. "He didn't rape me," Sara said, "but in my dreams he does. Over and over again."

"In mine too," Greg replied. "He destroys you."

"You're always screaming," Sara said, shaking her head. "Even after he kills you."

"I die in your dreams?" Greg asked, looking at her.

She still wouldn't look at him. Her voice was completely emotionless. "Sometimes. In different ways. He makes you drink the lye. And your vocal cords burn, but you keep screaming. Or he shoots you in the heart. Slits your throat, bleeds you dry. And then he comes after me, and you're not there to stop him. But you keep screaming. And he keeps…" Her throat tied itself in a knot and she couldn't continue. When she could speak again, she spoke in a whisper. "I haven't even told Grissom this."

"You get shot," Greg said. "It's the same every time. The only thing that's different is where. Sometimes it's in the stomach and you die slowly. Others, it's a shot to the head and it's instant. It always happens after he's shattered you. And when I try to hurt him for what he did, he just laughs and then he shoves a knife down my throat." He looked away from her. "I haven't told anyone about this either."

"The dreams won't go away," Sara said.

"Maybe now that we've voiced them," Greg said, "they won't come back."

"I doubt it," Sara said.

"At least you have someone to talk to now," Greg said.  
Finally, she turned to look at him and smiled at him wanly. She looked at his hands, which rested on his knees. "Is it true you can't feel anything in those?"

Greg shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tentatively, she reached out and put her hand on top of his right one. His skin felt coarse and dry beneath her palm, but it was the warmest thing she'd felt all month. It brought a genuine smile to her lips.

"You don't have to do that," Greg said, feeling embarrassed. "My hands feel like raisins, I know."

"I want to," Sara said, her eyes never leaving his hand. She gently ran her fingers across the back of his hand. "You really don't feel that?"

"I really wish I could," Greg said. "But no, I don't."

Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't feel her touch, or maybe it was because he had been through a lot too, or maybe it was because he was simply Greg, sweet adorable Greg, but for the first time in months, Sara wasn't afraid of physical contact. Slowly, she picked up Greg's rough hand and placed it against her cheek. He smiled at her as she held his hand there.

"Thank you Greg," she said.

"Any time, Sara," Greg replied. Slowly, he stood up, and Sara dropped her hand from his, but he kept it there on her cheek. He bent down and kissed her on her forehead. He smelled her strawberry hair again. "Be safe," he whispered, and his hand slid away from her cheek as he walked towards the door.

"Greg?" Sara called after him. He turned back to her to see her looking up at him with her dark eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind… sleeping here tonight?" she asked. "I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but—"

"Nah," said Greg, a smile tugging at his lips. "I don't mind. Your couch is pretty comfortable anyways."

"Wanna watch a movie?" Sara asked, standing up. "I could make popcorn."

"I'd like that," Greg said. She walked over to the kitchen and he kneeled in front of her DVD collection. "What movie do you want to watch?"

"I don't care," she said, from the kitchen. "Nothing depressing."

Greg scanned the titles. "You're a Hitchcock fan?"

"What?" Sara called. "Oh, Grissom is. He gave those to me. I think Hitchcock's OK."

"OK?" said Greg. "He's a _genius_."

Sara poked her head out of the kitchen. "You want a drink with your popcorn?"

"Do you have any beer?" Greg asked.

She disappeared again, before popping her head back out. "Guinness or Miller Lite?"

"Guinness," he said. "None of that lite beer crap."

Sara smiled at him before disappearing again. Greg turned back to the movies. "Dogma?"

"I watched Chasing Amy earlier. Too much Kevin Smith for one day."

Greg checked again. "Independence Day?"

"As much as I'd like to see the white house blown up," Sara replied, "there's too much death in that movie for me right now."

Greg smiled. "The Princess Bride?"

Sara came out holding a bowl of popcorn and two beers. "I didn't have you pegged as a Princess Bride fan, Greg."

He grinned at her. "Are you kidding? That sword fight between Inigo Montoya and Wesley is absolutely hysterical. When I was a kid, I broke my friend's finger when we were reenacting the scene with sticks and I hit it really hard."

Sara put the popcorn down on the coffee table and shrugged. "OK, put it on."

He obeyed and then sat down on the opposite end of the couch. She handed him his beer as the movie started. In the beginning of the movie, she stayed far away from Greg. Around the time of the famous sword fight, Sara got Greg another beer so he wouldn't miss it and when she came back, she sat down next to him. Greg felt the warmth radiating from her. As time went on and she grew tired, she rested her head on his right shoulder. Slowly, he put his arm around her. By the end of the movie, they were both asleep.

It was the most peaceful sleep either of them had had in two months.

**THE END**


End file.
